


the spider lily's web

by MooksMookin, spacegirlkj



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (unconventionally), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Childhood Trauma, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Mafia AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Serial Killer Murder Mystery, Sexual Tension, Spoiler Tags Withheld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooksMookin/pseuds/MooksMookin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirlkj/pseuds/spacegirlkj
Summary: “You’re a monster,” he whispers as fear coils deep in his gut.Oikawa simply shrugs, leaning back. “I consider myself incredibly efficient, but that works too.”"I’ll ask you again— how far are you willing to go? It takes a monster to find a monster, and I’m asking you to keep him on a leash. Hinata, will you?”Whatever it takes,he tells himself, brown eyes burned into his memory, and follows Oikawa out of the door.—Rookie detective Hinata Shouyou is asked to partner up with the infamous Oikawa Tooru— killer, mafia man, and a walking mystery. But for them both, there are more mysteries to uncover than the ones in the case.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 111
Kudos: 318
Collections: Behold the Sacred Texts





	1. Introduction.

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS !! this au started as a stress relief thing. honestly its a little different in terms of writing style (not too much though) but i hope you enjoy it! its inspired by silence of the lambs, minus the cannibalism!!
> 
> \- kj
> 
> —
> 
> sup guys its mooks!! so this is a detective murder mystery au. updates will be few and far in between because this fic isnt our priority. all comments asking for updates will be, as usual, deleted. we have a few good amount of this written already (see the end note for more info).
> 
> ANYWAY WARNINGS! again this is a murder mystery so you can expect some pretty heavy descriptions of gore, dead bodies, etc. i wont get into spoilers, but further down its gonna get VERY messy and VERY explicit (in both good and bad ways) so PLEASE take caution into what you are agreeing to reading by proceeding further. if you get squicked by, say, true crime documentaries or the like, then this fic isnt for you.
> 
> but without further ado, we present to you, MAF AU!
> 
> \- mooks

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

Hinata has been standing outside of Daichi’s office for a minute and a half now, just _waiting_ for something to push him to knock on the door. He shouldn’t be this nervous, but nothing about this situation is normal. After all, there’s no way a rookie stuck on grunt work would have any reason to meet with the head detective. 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

He inhales deeply. He tries not to think about how badly he needs this job, about how hard he’s worked to get here. He tries not to obsess over the idea that, somehow, he’s been found out. Slowly, with only the slightest of tremors, he raises a hand, and knocks on the door. 

“Sergeant Sawamura?” Hinata says, pushing open the door. It creaks, not from need of oil but from age. The wood grain under his fingertips is thick and could use a touch up. “You asked to see me?”

Sawamura Daichi smiles from his position behind the desk. He’s kind— in the few months Hinata has worked at the prefecture’s detective department, he’s found that much out. He comes to work with coffees for everyone, including the interns, and knows when to put his foot down and get back to work. There are the hints of crows feet by his eyes that give away age, and a framed photo shoot see on his desk. By all means, the perfect man to carry the title of captain of their division.

“Hinata— come in, take a seat,” he says, rising to a stand. Hinata tries not to wince when he reaches out to shake his hand— he’s learned that a handshake from him usually leads to an uncomfortable amount of swelling the hard way— but he’s nothing if not ready to please. Even when Daichi’s grip threatens to crush him, he smiles, albeit shakily.

Daichi locks the door behind him, and closes the blinds on the windows that separate his office from the rest of the room. It’s hard not to show concern on his face at the choice, nervousness swelling in the pit of his stomach before he can stop it. All he can do is breathe, like he's been taught— in and out. In, and out. It quells his nerves and lets him focus enough to notice the peculiar way Daichi bounces his leg as he takes a seat back down in front of him.

“You’re a hard worker. Sharp, gifted, and incredibly useful the few times you’ve been in the field,” Daichi starts, fingers drumming against his desk. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve got a good sense of intuition too.”

Hinata startles— out of all of the scenarios he had prepared himself for, praise from his boss was not one of them. “Th—thank you?” he says, though it comes out as more of a question as he picks at a stray sting on his pants.

Daichi sighs, shaking his head. The clock remains a steady lull of noise in the background, as if to taunt them, reminding them of the seconds passing in terse silence.

“I guess there’s no way around this besides being direct,” Daichi concedes. “You’ve heard of the Chimera Killer?”

Hinata nods quickly, because of course he has. It’d be impossible not to. The Chimera Killer has been the talk of the town, and probably the country, ever since the precinct linked a string of disappearances to an unidentified killer. The name is unique enough to stick in everyone’s mind, and is oddly fitting for a killer whose victims have only been found in a few pieces. The investigation has been under their jurisdiction for the past few months, and though Hinata isn’t assigned to the task force on the case, he _is_ privy to a great deal of detail the public otherwise doesn’t know. Namely, that the body parts found belong to three different people, and that they were hidden in their very own homes.

“Is it about the case?” Hinata asks, because he isn’t sure what else it could be about right now. There’s an ambitious, righteous part of himself beginning to grow at the possibility of working to catch the killer— at this point, he’d be content proofreading reports if it meant the man would be caught. Daichi smiles again, only this time, it’s wry, as if something has left a sour taste in his mouth.

“It is,” he tells him, hands folded in front of him. “Hinata, how far are you willing to go to do what’s right?”

Hinata’s response is immediate. “Whatever it takes, sir.” It’s only half earnest— the other half stems from something deeper, a rumbling within his stomach that comes to life.

Daichi nods. “Then I’ll tell you the truth about the Chimera case,” he says. “It went cold three months ago. Every lead we thought we had led to a dead end. The ends were all tied, leading us in circles before we even realized it. Whoever did this isn’t a few steps ahead of us— they’re playing an entirely different game. One that no sane person can understand.”

He hesitates, steeling himself. “There have been cases like this before. You’d be surprised how hard it is to let go of your own sanity to think like a monster. You’d also be surprised to know how many monsters exist, and how many of them are willing to bargain.”

Hinata shakes his head, furrowing his brow. “I don’t think I understand.”

“For all intents and purposes, you shouldn’t. What I’m about to tell you is off the books. This entire _meeting_ is off the books,” Daichi explains. “Three years ago, a rogue arsonist started wreaking havoc in the eastside of town. I was assigned to the case. Hinata, how much do you know about the eastside?”

“Only that it’s mainly corporate buildings. I— I don’t have much reason to go there.”

“There’s something else you should know too. The eastside of town is where the mafia conducts most of their business.”

Hinata’s stomach drops. “The mafia?” he parrots, as if it’d do him any good to clarify what he’d heard. Since becoming a member of the detective division of the police force, he has been told one thing about the mafia: stay away, and never engage alone. There are horror stories on the tips of agent’s tongues he’s yet to hear, but the look of fear in their eyes stifles his curiosity enough to have him heeding their warnings— whispers of interrogations, crude voices heard in the dark, bloodstains on street corners everyone’s eyes gloss over. Hinata went from blissful ignorance of the organization to constant awareness of the shadow that lurks on the city’s underside. 

“They watched us conduct our investigation in vain. We didn’t gain any ground, or figure anything out. Homes went up in flames, businesses were burnt to the ground, and all that was left were ashes, with no trace of a person behind it. We were stuck, until someone offered us a deal.”

“Who?” Hinata asks, leaning forward. His voice has become hushed in a stage whisper.

“Oikawa Tooru,” Daichi tells him. “At first glance, he seems like a prodigy— a poster child for hard work and dedication. He graduated _summa cum laude_ from the same law school as my husband and did his undergraduate degree in forensic biology. When you search his name, all that shows are the accreditations to his name, and yet he’s an executive member, just under the boss. He is skilled in torture, interrogation, and assassination, and is, without a doubt, the furthest thing from human a man can get. There are members of this very force who faced him, and they are only alive because he wanted them to be. 

“He approached us with a proposition— in exchange for his help capturing the arsonist, his… faction of the mafia would be given certain kinds of immunities. In other words, he’d be able to move out of the shadows.” Daichi looks up, eyes bitter, resigned. “You have to understand— we were desperate. People were dying and the public was scared. Oikawa has thousands of people under his thumb, and yet, he didn’t need to use a single one to corner the arsonist. He just sent someone, in the dead of night, with the man bound and tied to a chair he had waiting in the back of a truck, a file folder with evidence lying at his feet. In less than twenty four hours, the case was solved, and a contract between this department and Oikawa Tooru was founded— in exchange for the police turning a blind eye to any of his or his direct subordinates workings, he would work on cases that we couldn’t solve.”

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

“So you’re going to call him again,” Hinata says, conclusion dawning on him as he stares Daichi down. “A murderer and mafioso.”

“Unfortunately, it’s our last choice,” Daichi says, running a hand through his hair. “We contacted him last night. Of course, he had conditions that the contract we signed allowed him to make. He doesn't want to work, or in his words, _be hindered,_ by the entire team. Instead, he wants one representative to work with him and be his contact. For legal reasons, that can’t be anyone officially on the case. You’re the best person for the job.”

Hinata stares at Daichi, incredulous, mouth agape. “Excuse me?” he says. “You want— you want _me_ to work with someone that’s not even _human?”_

“Yes,” Daichi admits. “He’s a cunning, charming, bloodthirsty criminal. You’re the most honest, open member of our division. If I send someone in with a motive, he’d eat them alive. The only risk sending you in is that he sends you back complaining that you’re not good enough.”

The clock on the wall grows louder in time with Hinata’s pulse. Something akin to bile makes itself known in his throat, and if it weren’t showing the steady progression of time, he’d think this was a dream.

Daichi’s face is set in stone— serious in a way Hinata has never seen, voice low in a way he’s yet to hear. “I’ll ask you again— how far are you willing to go? It takes a monster to find a monster, and I’m asking you to keep him on a leash. Hinata, will you?”

“Yes sir,” Hinata answers. Hesitation burns away inside of him, eaten by haste and a growing acceptance of his own desires. “Whatever it takes.”

—

Hinata wakes the next morning to the sound of scratching underneath his floorboards.

He imagines it, of course. He doesn’t have a cat and lives on the ground floor of his apartment building. The bucket that collects the steady drip of rainwater next to the window is full, and each subsequent drop echoes across the empty room. Humid air sticks to Hinata’s sweaty skin, chest heaving in attempt to catch breath stolen away by a nightmare half formed in the corners of his mind. He doesn’t remember a single thing, but knows exactly what it’s about. The fan at his bedside table whirs, making the skin on his arms grow clammy with every second spent sitting upright, staring at the space in front of him. The calendar on his bedside table helpfully reminds him that he has one appearance to make at the job today, but it isn’t until seven pm, when the sun is ready to set and everyone else has gone home. He turns his head, and blinks back at the clock displaying a quarter past nine. 

_It’s just a contract,_ Hinata reminds himself as he rolls out of bed, beginning the motions of getting ready in half speed. _I go into work, and I sign a contract. A contract made out by the mafia. That’s all._

He doesn’t think anyone can blame him for worrying. He has yet to read over a contract himself in his life, blindly signing every paper that’s been set in front of him since he was a child. It’s easy to forget that the pages are meant to be read when no one ever spares them a second glance. 

In the end, after cleaning his apartment twice and reorganizing his wardrobe, Hinata dons the whitest button up he owns and sets off to the station, arrives twenty minutes early to a door unlocked. There’s a nervous twitch in his hands he can’t seem to will away, one that makes turning the handle to the large conference room a challenge and one that he hopes won’t be noticeable to anyone but himself. Daichi waits in the room with a silver haired man who seems too relaxed for their current position. Both stand as he enters the room, Daichi motioning to the man beside him. 

“This is my husband. He mainly works in corporate law, but he agreed to look over the contract they’re writing for you,” he says. The man steps forward, grabbing Hinata’s hand to shake with no preamble. Amazingly, his grip is even tighter than his husband’s.

“Sugawara Koushi— just call me Suga,” he says, flashing a grin full of shining, straight teeth. Hinata gets the distinct feeling that he would be quite scary in court. “Ready to play the waiting game?”

Sugawara, admittedly, was probably joking, but Hinata nods, laughing nervously. Little conversation is shared between the three as the minutes pass, the hand growing closer to the hour, closer to the hour, closer to the hour. There’s nothing left for him to do but wait and wonder— wonder if this isn’t just a declaration that they are _completely_ at their mercy. Hinata’s throat tightens and his hands continue to shake, leg still bouncing when the handle turns, announcing an entrance.

The man who enters wears a fitted black suit, with a black coat thrown over top, black tie tied around the collar of the only white thing he wears— a shirt. His skin is warm and dark and his hair, though cut fairly short, is unruly, matching the tightness in his jaw as he shuts the door behind him. In his hand is a black briefcase, locked with two codes, and as he shifts to set it onto the conference table, gun holsters underneath his arms become apparent, signalling to Hinata that this is very much real.

“Evening,” the man says, bowing his head curtly. His voice is a touch rough, but professional nonetheless. “I’m Iwaizumi. I’m a sub-executive under Oikawa, and I’ll be giving you the contract.” His eyes immediately find Hinata, gaze intense as he approaches the briefcase. “I assume you’re Hinata Shouyou?”

Hinata stalls for a moment before scrambling to stand, nodding quickly. “Yes! Yes— I’m— that’s me!” 

His cheeks flush red before he can help it, and Iwaizumi stiffens, huffing to himself as he rubs his temple. Wordlessly, he steps towards the briefcase, turning the dials until it pops with a gentle _click,_ leaving it opened with its contents on display. “You can have as much time with it as you need. Naturally, your lawyer can read it under complete discrepancy.”

Hinata nods slowly, pulling the briefcase towards himself. Sugawara hums, pushing open the top to grab the file that lies inside. The stack of papers is thick, bound tight at the corners and held together with signatures that give it the appearance of a small novel. Unfazed, Sugawara simply begins flipping through, leaning back and chewing on his lip. A few minutes pass in dead silence before he chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“You can tell that Oikawa wrote it,” he says, flipping back a few papers. “It’s funny to think I used to attend mock trials with someone neck deep in the mafia. He certainly put his studies to good use.”

“What does it say?” Hinata asks, unable to contain his curiosity. He leans over to read, only to lean back, deterred by fine print and legal jargon he can’t begin to decipher.

“Well, you aren’t signing off to become the mafia’s dog or anything,” Sugawara says, tossing the papers onto the table. “But it’s a stiff deal. Oikawa gets complete access to the department’s records, including beyond this case, and you are unable to answer any questions of progressions in your investigation unless otherwise informed by him, meaning we can’t ask you for information unless Oikawa wants said information released. Upon signing this, you’ll both be granted any request you wish on behalf of the department, including, but not limited to: exhuming bodies, presence for autopsies, access to crime scenes, and so on. You _are_ protected from any mafia influence equal to or below Oikawa’s ranking, which happens to be one of the few wins.”

Hinata tugs on the collar of his shirt, looking back over to Iwaizumi. “What— what does that protection mean then?”

“There’s only one person higher ranking than Oikawa. You’re basically untouchable. He made sure of that,” Iwaizumi confirms. He crosses his arms. “I should mention that this isn’t open for negotiation.”

“Of course,” Daichi mutters, leaning back in his chair.

“We assumed,” Sugawara tells him, with a menacing smile. Iwaizumi remains unflinching. Sugawara reaches inside the briefcase and grabs the fountain pen tucked away in the velveteen lining, offering it to Daichi. “All that’s left to do is sign off. Daichi, you first. Hinata has more than you.”

Daichi takes the pen wordlessly and scribbles his signature on the first page. With ease that betrays the absurdity of the situation, Sugawara flips through the contract, pointing to each place Hinata needs to sign. The fountain pen is heavy in his grip, and yet, his hands have begun to move on their own, as if his mind has stepped up to the task at hand at last. On the last page, just above the final blank for him to sign, is another ledger, filled out already in flowing, light cursive. The signature of Oikawa Tooru taunts him for half a second before he scrawls his final signature, ink staining the side of his hand. He half expected to seal the contract with blood, but this— having only the name of a phantom he’s yet to meet already haunting his mind— is more binding than he could ever expect.

Iwaizumi takes the contract, and closes the briefcase. He bows towards Hinata and begins to walk towards the door, casting one final look over his shoulder before he leaves.

“Oikawa will be in touch,” he tells him. “And a word of advice— it’s useless to lie.”

The door shuts behind him, and Hinata can only sink further into his chair, mouth dry and pen heavy in his hand.

—

 _“You are an absolute bastard, you know that, right?”_ Iwaizumi says, voice muffled through the line. The slam of a door is loud in the phone pressed to Oikawa’s ear, coinciding perfectly with his view of Iwaizumi stepping into the black, unmarked car behind the station. He grins to himself, containing his laughter as he looks down at him from the twentieth floor of the highrise directly across from the station. The receptionist of the office sleeps soundly against her desk, still limp from the chloroform rag Oikawa had pressed to her nose when he entered. _How juvenile of them,_ he thinks, _not to invest in a good security system._ _As if it would do them any good._

“Ah, but Iwa-chan, I just did my job!” he says, walking away from the window. There’s nothing left to watch now that the lights have gone off, nothing interesting about the brown brick building he’s had the inconvenience of visiting only once. “Say, that Hinata seemed pretty timid. Are you sure they didn’t shack me up with an intern?”

 _“He’s a rookie that just got_ you _as his partner. I think he has every right to be unsure,”_ Iwaizumi grumbles. _“And you did_ not _do your job, you leered at him and purposefully tried to test my patience.”_

“Mm, maybe, but Iwa-chan’s composure held surprisingly well,” Oikawa chides. He grabs his coat from where it’s been dropped on the floor and throws it over his shoulders, leaving the office building behind. “What can I say— I didn’t expect him to be so… _cute.”_

_“I can’t believe I work for you sometimes.”_

Oikawa sighs, all false bravado as the elevator chimes, announcing his arrival to the lower parking garage. He steps out, waving to the car that has already pulled up to wait for him, sleek and black and just as plain as Iwaizumi’s. “You’re quite the cruel man. Now tell me, what was your impression of dear Hinata _besides_ timid? I hardly doubt you weren’t trying to get a read on him the entire time.”

 _“He’s… determined. Ambitious, almost, but I don’t think he’s doing this to advance his career. If anything, his moral compass is what’s forcing him to do this despite his obvious apprehension to the entire situation.”_ Iwaizumi sighs, and Oikawa can picture him massaging an oncoming migraine. _“He’s your type too, which is equally frustrating. If he wasn’t contractually obligated to work with you under duress, I’m sure he’d go running.”_

Oikawa settles in the back of the car, the driver already pulling out into the streets, smirk heavy on his lips as he watches the fading remnants of day vanish beyond the horizon. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? That’s half the fun, after all.”

Sky growing darker by the minute, the city becomes engulfed in darkness. Iwaizumi doesn't bother with a response, ending the call and leaving Oikawa alone with his thoughts, tasting the name _Hinata Shouyou_ on his tongue. He rolls it around in his mouth like fine wine, watching as the headlights on the stretch of road connecting the city flash by. There’s a thread with the same name as his new partner, a game that looks just like him, and a puzzle in the same shape of his shoulders. Oikawa grins to himself and closes his eyes, and wonders, not so innocently, what Hinata will do when they finally meet.

—

Searching the name _Oikawa Tooru_ proves to be as useless as Hinata expected. He spends the entire day sitting at his desk, sifting through various results only to come up with the same information Daichi had shared with him— a list of honours, no mention of the mafia, and not even a picture to give a face to the name. Hinata is left to stew in his own imagination, mind conjuring up images of what a charming career killer looks like. At the very least, he supposes, he won’t be much older than Sugawara, nor himself, if they graduated the same year. 

It’s the buzz of his phone against his desk that pulls him out of his thoughts and back into the real world. Hinata grabs it just as the notification pops up on the screen— _New calendar invitation._ No one else in the office pays him any mind as he sits back and unlocks his phone, taking a closer look at the invitation. It’s for dinner, of all things, at a restaurant Hinata has never heard of for tomorrow evening. He frowns at the date and time, confused until he scrolls down to read the details.

 _Reservation under the name Oikawa Tooru,_ it reads. _Bring a copy of the case, per negotiated._

Hinata immediately hits select, and drops his phone onto his keyboard. The clatter earns him a pointed stare from the woman in the cubicle across from him, but it’s the last thing he cares about. Meeting Oikawa Tooru has been the only thing on his mind the past few days, even as he read through the case himself. What’s most notable about the file is the utter lack of evidence pointing towards a suspect, or even the rest of the bodies. It’s gruesome and dark, asks too many questions and answers too few, leaving it uncomfortably apparent that the police could never solve the case on their own. There’s no part of Hinata that can understand how anyone else could fill the gaps missing in the case, no string to unravel or footprint to follow. In every sense, the case seems unsolvable, and perhaps _that_ is what makes Hinata fear Oikawa the most. 

_What kind of person can see through the impossible?_ Hinata asks himself, staring at the blank search results on his computer. _A killer? A murderer? Someone with blood on their hands?_

The computer holds no answers. It just stares back at him, stark white pixels burning into his retinas before he shuts it off and heads home.

—

 _Le Château des Fleurs_ is an upscale french restaurant on the thirty-fourth floor of a building in the heart of the eastside. The elevator ride up is silent, and Hinata spends it staring at the mirror walls in an attempt to smooth out any imperfection from his nicest dress shirt. He’s wearing the only suit he owns, stiff from disuse, black fabric tight around the shoulders where he’s grown since last wearing it. It’s only clean because Hinata can count the times he’s worn it on one hand, and the moment that he steps out of the elevator and into the dimly lit interior of the restaurant, he’s sure he’s underdressed. The windows that span the length of the walls are covered in hazy sheets of organza, casting a ruby red glow over the interior as the setting sun shines through. His footsteps against the marble tiles, only muted by the dulcet tones of piano being played nearby. 

_Oh,_ Hinata thinks, approaching the hostess who stands at a desk in front of an enormous display of bottled wine. _I don’t belong here._

The hostess eyes him with an air of polite confusion, smile tense as she eyes him up and down. “Can I help you?” she says, straining to keep the distaste from her face. 

Hinata swallows, nodding nervously as he tugs on the collar of his shirt. “Yes, I— uh— I’m here on a reservation for Oikawa Tooru?” His cheeks burn with embarrassment at his voice crack, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice, quickly straightening her back. 

“Of course, sir, my apologies. Right this way.” The sudden change in her attitude catches Hinata off guard, and before he knows it they’re weaving through booths and tables, past elegant paintings, gas fireplaces, and ornately hung light fixtures too avant garde to be considered chandeliers. The people eating dinner are dressed in suits that put Hinata’s to shame, shirts pressed and shoes shined to perfection. Hinata wonders if he could afford the dress the hostess wears with his salary. He doubts his bank account will even recover from a single meal. 

The hostess stops short a few feet of a sheltered booth, tucked into the corner of the restaurant far away from the other patrons. She bows wordlessly, leaving Hinata to tentatively step past her, taking in the sight of the man waiting for him. 

He’s not what Hinata expected, youthful complexion glowing under the golden lights, hair tousled, ashy brown and swept to the side in a way so precise it could be an artform. Long fingers wrap around the stem of thin flute of champagne, bubbling and popping as if just poured. His skin is even toned, cool, and exposed by the haphazard state of his dress. The crisp white shirt he wears has sleeves pushed up past his elbows and the first two buttons undone, leaving sharp collarbones on display. He’s willowy and lean, but a glance at his bare forearms tells of strength not to be doubted. There’s obvious signs of wealth, too— the watch glimmering in gold the most apparent. It’s as Hinata’s eyes travel back up to his face that he realizes just how long he’s been staring. Cheeks flushing, he watches as the man smirks, pink lips tilting up in amusement as Hinata takes him in.

“It’s nice to meet you, Hinata,” Oikawa says, and his half lidded eyes glint with a layer of hunger that has the hair on the back of Hinata’s neck raised. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Hinata clutches the copy of the case file tighter to his thigh as he nods, slipping into the plush red booth across from Oikawa. The hostess appears with a bottle dripping with condensation, silent as she presents it to him. Hinata looks down at the empty flute sitting in front of him, and hesitates. 

“Mm, it’s my treat. Pour him a glass,” Oikawa hums, eyes trained forward at Hinata as he raises his own flute. With a single wave, he shoos the server off after she pours Hinata a glass, leaving him alone with one of the most dangerous men in the city and two chutes of champagne. Oikawa tips his glass in mock toast, and gingerly, Hinata does the same, touching the crystal against his before bringing it to his lips, closing his eyes, and letting the bittersweet taste of champagne hit his tongue. 

“To our new partnership,” Oikawa says, somewhat belatedly. He leans back in the booth, swirling the contents of his glass lazily as Hinata sets his own down. 

“I— I hope we can work well together,” Hinata replies, swallowing the growing knot in his throat. Something about Oikawa’s gaze alone forces his pulse to race, loud in his ears while he tries to concentrate on the task at hand. “I brought you a copy of the case file. There’s access codes to the district’s records inside, too.” He sets the folder on the table, pushing it towards Oikawa, who puts down his glass in favour of taking it. He flips through the pages absentmindedly, eyes flickering over the contents as Hinata debates strangling himself with his own tie. “I, um, added my own notes too. So we would be on the same page, and… such.”

Oikawa’s eyes dart up, meeting his own. Hinata takes the time to appreciate the deep brown hue as he closes the file and tosses it onto the seat next to him with too little preamble. “How considerate of you. Now I’ll have something to occupy myself with on the way home.”

Hinata’s shoulders stiffen. “Um, don't you want to talk about it now?” he asks. Oikawa simply cocks his head, the weight of his gaze enough to make Hinata squirm. 

“Not really, no. We’ll have plenty of time to do that,” he assures Hinata, fingertip tracing the rim of his glass. “What I’m more interested in is you.”

The world narrows down to the space separating them, to the vacuum of air that steals Hinata’s breath and composure in one seamless motion. There’s a part of Hinata that hopes Oikawa can see right through him just so he doesn’t have to explain anything anymore, a part of him that remembers Iwaizumi’s one piece of advice. 

_It’s useless to lie._

“Why?” Hinata asks, voice short and uncomfortably tight. “I mean, can’t you solve this on your own like you did with the other case? Why do you even need me?”

Oikawa takes another sip of champagne, humming. “Well, this isn’t the same as the arsonist. For one, the arsonist was obvious about the entire thing— there was evidence everywhere that the detectives couldn’t see through the ashes. Whoever is behind the Chimera killings is a lot more crafty, no?” he says, raising a brow. “You have no evidence besides the body parts found, and no bodies. Extracting touch DNA would be useless, because a man like this wouldn’t already be in the criminal justice system. He’s educated, smart— that much I can tell without even starting a profile. He managed to hide a victim’s eye in her mother’s pillowcase, for god’s sake.”

“Wait,” Hinata interrupts. “How did you—”

“What I’m saying is that the Chimera Killer isn’t just good at evading capture. He’s playing a game with the police and the public alike. Odds are that it’s just as fulfilling as the act of murdering itself for him.” Oikawa shifts, crossing his legs as a smug smile rests on his face. “Honestly, I’m flattered you think I could do this in one day, Hinata. But I’d like to think it’d be much more useful to work with someone on the inside if this will take as long as I think it will.”

Silence envelops the two, the gap in conversation filled by piano and the uncomfortable truth that Oikawa is just as smart as they say. Hinata finds himself playing with the rim of his glass, unsure of what else to do with his hands as Oikawa gauges his reaction. 

“So you want to get to know… me,” Hinata responds slowly, trying not to show his apprehension in his face. “That way, we can work better. Together.”

“Exactly.” Oikawa’s teeth flash as he smiles, leans forwards onto his elbows and rests his chin in his hand. “Though, may I say, you’re an awfully hard person to find any information on.”

Hinata seizes up, caught in the headlights of Oikawa’s eyes. “W-what?”

“You’re not aware? There’s really no proof of your existence before the age of eighteen. All I could find on you were a few copies of your resume, some college applications…” he trails off, silencing himself with another sip of champagne. It draws out the silence like taffy, makes Hinata sweat as he struggles to think of a response.

“Why… why should I believe you?” It’s weak, and he knows it just by watching Oikawa’s lips— they turn up around the edge of his glass into a smile that lets him know he’s played right into his trap.

“What, am I untrustworthy? Does my work not speak for itself?” Oikawa asks, gesturing with his free hand.

At that, Hinata can’t help but roll his eyes, still playing with his glass. “No, it sure does,” he says, with no small amount of bite. “You— you’re a part of the _mafia._ I think any— any _normal_ person would find that untrustworthy.”

Oikawa considers that for a brief moment, staring down at his glass. “Ah, maybe. But y’know, you’re _plenty_ suspicious yourself.” He looks up at that, the same sharpened glint in his eyes piercing through Hinata in mere moments. It has him sitting straighter, knuckles white from the strength of his grip on the table between them. He furiously shakes his head.

“I’m not like you!” he exclaims, incredulous at the insinuation. “I’d never— never—”

“Kill someone?” Oikawa finishes, biting his lip to hold back the smile at Hinata’s reaction. He takes no haste in raking his eyes over Hinata’s flustered form, taking in the smallest of details— the pulsing vein in his neck, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the frenzied dart of his eyes. Oikawa leans impossibly closer— any more, and he’d be climbing onto the table— his eyes level with Hinata’s as he sets his glass down. “It’s quite easy, actually. What’s harder sometimes is _not_ to— that’s one of the first lessons you learn in T and I.”

“W-what—?”

“Torture and interrogation,” Oikawa answers, near flippant about the clarification. “That’s my forte, didn’t Daichi say? There’s an art to getting what you want out of people, information or otherwise. You need to know how much force to use to scare someone into spilling their entire life story, or to ensure they do as told. People can’t talk if they’re dead, but you’d be surprised just how chatty they become on the brink.”

Blood runs cold in Hinata’s veins, chilling him to the bone. There’s a darkness behind Oikawa’s eyes, a kind of mania in the half lidded gaze that unfurls at the edges. Hinata’s eyes dart to the exits in the restaurant, and _damn,_ he thinks, _there are none._ Not where they’re sat, ushered out of the way in the corner. 

“You’re a monster,” he whispers as fear coils deep in his gut.

Oikawa simply shrugs, leaning back. “I consider myself incredibly efficient, but that works too.”

With that, he raises a hand, waving over the server with their bottle of champagne. She leans over and tops up Oikawa’s chute, passing over Hinata’s. He hasn’t had any more than the single sip in toast at the beginning of their meeting, leaving it near full as the bubbles continue to fizzle out. 

Oikawa’s eyes drift to it curiously, head tilted in puzzlement. “Do you not like the champagne? You’ve hardly touched it.” 

_It’s useless to lie._ “I have a terrible tolerance,” Hinata says instead. Not a lie, but not the real answer. 

Oikawa narrows his eyes slightly. “Bad enough that you won’t savour a free glass of _Blanc de Blancs Le Mesnil?”_ he asks, raising his own. “Really, I know you don’t trust me, but I’m legally bound not to have your death on my hands. I don’t mind if you want to savour it, you can call a cab if you need. Besides, I bought the entire bottle.”

Hinata isn’t sure if it’s the persuasive nature of Oikawa’s faux care or his own desire to have the last word that pushes him to drag his flute closer once more. He raises it to his lips and takes another sip, the taste not unpleasant as it fizzles on his tongue, but heavy with the taste of alcohol. He sets the glass down, not much more empty than it was before.

“There,” he says, forcing himself to meet Oikawa’s eyes. “I had more.”

Hinata doesn’t know what to expect as a response— more quizzical head motions, a knowing look— but it isn’t what he gets. Oikawa ducks his head down, eyes falling shut as he laughs lightly, an airy sound. It catches him off guard, throwing Hinata for a loop that breaks him out of his unsteady spiral of frustration and fear.

“Of course you did,” Oikawa says, shoulders shaking as he looks back up. There’s hunger in his smile now, the kind that burns as he comes back to his senses. “I think we’ll get along just fine now, don’t you think?”

Hinata’s chest grows heavy, and he crosses his arms in a last ditch effort to shield himself from Oikawa’s ploy. “If you say so,” he mumbles, eyes flickering away from his face, choosing to stare instead at the watch on his wrist. The hands don’t move.

Oikawa drums his fingertips on the table. “I _hope_ so, since you’ll be working solely with me from now on.”

 _Crap,_ Hinata thinks, eyes widening. It makes sense— his other duties mean nothing next to the job he’s been assigned, but no part of him factored a sole partnership with Oikawa into the equation. He blinks quickly, pretending not to notice how Oikawa’s face splits into a grin.

“Well then, why don’t we order dinner. My treat,” he says, opening the menu, and a less controlled, unhelpful part of Hinata’s mind takes too long admiring those long fingers. Panic grows in his stomach, because there’s no _way_ he can keep his composure any longer. Messing up this means messing up first impressions with a— killer? Mafia man? Or just Oikawa, too smart for his own good? 

“Wait,” Hinata says, reaching out before he can stop himself. His fingertips reach the skin of Oikawa’s wrist, softer than expected and _cold._ Oikawa’s eyes meet his, pausing his motions as he waits for him to speak. Heat rises to Hinata’s face as his mind stumbles over an excuse. “We, uhm, you don’t have to feel obligated...” he trails off meekly.

The words are said quietly, as if Hinata himself can’t even believe them. Oikawa doesn’t move for another few seconds, as if his mind is running over the possibilities. Still, there’s a look of sheer _excitement_ in his eyes as he closes the menu, smile wide and flashing teeth Hinata is sure could be fangs. Before he can consider if it was a mistake, Oikawa waves over the server once more, leaning back onto his elbows.

“Oh, Hinata, I know I’m not,” he says, and his words fall like honey from a spool, slow and warm over Hinata’s mind. “Humour me, would you?” 

And for some reason Hinata can’t explain, he sinks further into his seat, feeling much less caught in a web and more enthralled by a song. Skin crawling with discomfort at his own acceptance of Oikawa’s charm, Hinata stares at the menu and pretends that the man across from him isn’t a mafioso, and that a mafioso hasn’t just been made his partner.


	2. Investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! welcome to chapt 2. hope u enjoy!!  
> \- mooks
> 
> —
> 
> hey guys!!!!!!!! time for it to get Sexy. no smut. yet. but its Sexy. i forgot if i said this au is inspired by silence of the lambs. oikawa isnt a cannibal, but hes a little like hannibal imo. or so i try to convey him. anyways! i hope you enjoy this more than hinata enjoys floorboards. youll get it soon enough  
> -kj

The blades of Hinata’s ceiling fan have never offered any answers to the universe’s secrets, no matter how long he stares. But it’s become a habit, to spend sleepless nights and early mornings staring, watching it whirl, hoping to find some semblance of peace within his own inner turmoil. Some days, he finds it when it lulls him to sleep. Others, he’s kept up by the steady _clickclickclick_ of the rotor. 

It’s one of those days. Late in the afternoon, rain clouds rolling in from the west after a day so humid Hinata was forced to strip down to boxers and not much else. All that has been on his mind is Oikawa, and it’s all that has ever been since their meeting a day and a half ago. He couldn’t have prepared for any of it— not for the predatory gaze, not for the questions that played him into his hands, not for the strangely pleasant company when he wasn’t _scared shitless._ He hardly spoke after they had ordered their meals, choosing silence over trying to spark conversation with someone he can’t stand. Because Oikawa is as sharp as they say, and as dark as they come. After all he’s been through, Hinata has developed a strong stomach, but something about Oikawa’s game nauseates him. It’s not unlike the moment before the other shoe drops, the half second of suspension at the top of a rollercoaster, before you fall. Hinata remembers the strange kindness of Oikawa ordering for him, parsing French without a second though, and feels the conflict bubble up again within him. 

He’s still terrified of him— terrified to work with him, terrified of what he’s done, terrified of whatever plan he’s devised. But nothing about Oikawa cries _murderer_ besides his own voice, besides his wit, besides the glint in his eyes. It’s hard to pair the Oikawa he’s met with the Oikawa he was warned about, even if they’re one and the same.

Hinata’s phone buzzes against his hip, where he’d thrown it after it stopped proving a useful distraction. With a groan, he grabs it, squinting at the unknown number calling him. He rolls onto his stomach and picks up, not ready for the voice that greets him on the other end.

 _“Hello, Hina-chan,”_ Oikawa hums, voice humming through the line.

Hinata instantly jerks upright, crossing his legs as he cradles the phone to his ear. “H-how did you get my number?”

 _“It was one of the few things I could find on you,”_ Oikawa says, unaffected by Hinata’s worry. _“Anyways, I’m almost finished profiling the killer. If I give you a meeting place, how soon will you be able to be there?”_

Hinata glances over at the clock, and then down to his chosen outfit. “Already? Uhh— I could leave in ten minutes? Where am I going?”

 _“The Ikigaru Tower on forty-fifth street. The receptionist will know who you are,”_ he explains. _“I’ll meet you there, okay?”_

Hinata nods, mostly to himself, stumbling off of his bed. “Yeah— yeah! Yeah, I’ll see you.”

 _“Bye-bye then, Hinata,”_ Oikawa hums, and with that, hangs up the phone.

A quick google search as Hinata yanks a pair of black jeans from his drawers reveals that Ikigaru Tower lies in the heart of the east side of town, housing various offices owned by various people. There’s a café on the second floor balcony that looks lovely, and Hinata would be tempted to visit if not for the knowledge that it’s all one big front for the mafia. Beyond that, there isn’t much more time to ruminate, leaving Hinata to throw on the first button down he finds and catch the next cab east. 

He makes it there in just under half an hour, fanning himself from the heat as he approaches the imposing building that is Ikigaru Tower. It serves as an air conditioned haven, and that much is what pushes Hinata through his nerves as he steps into the empty lobby. It’s not devoid of people in its minimalism— people who come and go are clad in inconspicuous black getups similar to the one Iwaizumi had worn. Hinata wonders just how much he stands out as he approaches the receptionist, hands clammy and goosebumps rising. 

“Hi, I’m here to see Oikawa Tooru,” he says, voice quiet. Everything seems to echo in the lobby, from the footfalls to the voices to the shuffle of papers. “I’m Hinata Shouyou. He said he’d meet me here.”

The receptionist nods, already dialing a number on her phone. “I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

There’s nothing else for Hinata to do but take a seat and watch the line of elevators open and close, open and close. There isn’t anything inherently criminal about a _lobby,_ but Hinata can’t help but feel like he’s a sheep in a wolf’s den, tapping his feet and biding his time until they sniff him out. 

Oikawa doesn’t take long to appear, wearing pants rolled at the ankle to expose striped socks and gold toed shoes, as if that’d make up for the strange clash between styles in his outfit. There are tiny gold cufflinks on his sleeves, which are left long, but he lacks the tie that seems uniform for the rest of the people walking in and out. Hinata stands quickly, and forces himself to stop staring, because Oikawa has started to smirk and the last thing he needs is for him to get any more ideas. 

“You made good time, considering how far away you live,” Oikawa says in lieu of greeting, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

Hinata barely contains his indignation as his expression sours. “Great, you know where I live too.”

“Naturally,” Oikawa responds, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He turns on his heel and looks over his shoulder, hair bouncing to rest just out of his eyes. “Come on, we can talk in my office.”

Hinata sputters, incredulous, as if imagining Oikawa Tooru— the second in command to the _mafia—_ doing office work is the most unrealistic thing he’s ever heard of. He jogs to catch up. “You have an _office?”_

Oikawa snorts, pushing the call button on the elevator. “Well, I _do_ need somewhere to work. I’m an executive of a rather large organization, after all.” He looks back at Hinata’s dumbstruck expression. “Seriously, I need to make reports of things. We have an entire accounting team, too— is _that_ surprising? I’m glad I’m not in charge of it.”

The elevator chimes, and the two step in, the doors closing behind them. He hits the third highest floor and leans back, attention fixed onto Hinata. “I do have a legal position, you know. I’m technically a lawyer. I did pass the bar exam. It’s just not my actual job.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?” Hinata asks, wrinkling his nose. He can’t help but look around the elevator, taking in the small camera hidden in the upmost right corner. It blinks back at him, as if to wave. “I’m sure you don’t do _just_ paperwork in that office.”

At that, Oikawa grins, flashing the whites of his teeth. “Oh, I do _plenty_ besides paperwork in there, but not what you’re thinking,” he tells him. He licks his lips, and Hinata gulps. “There’s a time and a place. Many places, to be exact.”

Involuntarily, Hinata finds himself flushing, leaning away from Oikawa’s advance. Disgust at Oikawa mingles with disgust in himself, and he’s quick to look away. It’s useless in a small space made of mirrors, because the heat of Oikawa’s gaze simply follows him even as he turns his gaze to the floor. Oikawa’s laughter is quiet, mostly air, and rings clear against the walls in a way that only intensifies the blush creeping across Hinata’s cheeks. 

The doors finally open, and Hinata is first to step out. The air here is a different kind of stifling, clouded with silence even as Oikawa leads him down the hall. There’s a few doors here, each with plaques above them, reading names Hinata doesn't recognize— other executives, no doubt. Oikawa opens the door at the end of the hall, holding it for Hinata in a gesture of chivalry that Hinata chooses to ignore, walking past without comment to take in his office.

It’s surprisingly light. Large windows line the wall behind a large oak desk, giving a picturesque view of the city skyline. There are bookshelves that house all kinds of books, all in pristine condition. There are wooden cabinets and a drawing board, a sleek computer and what seems to be a small rack housing a few bottles of choice wine. Hinata rolls his eyes at that, wandering over to stand by one of the couches. 

“You said you’ve already completed a profile on the killer?” Hinata asks once the door has been closed behind them. 

Oikawa hums, nodding, choosing to lean against his desk. “It isn’t set in stone, but yes. I’d like to see the remains still, but even now I’d say I have a good idea of what kind of person our Chimera Killer is. But before that, how much of the case do you know?”

Hinata frowns. “We’ve both read the case file,” he says.

Oikawa waves him off. “Humor me, Hinata.”

Hinata sighs, crossing his arms before plopping down on the couch. “Fine,” he relents. “Currently, there have been three victims. The first victim— Nakamura Mariko, age twenty-two— went missing one night after leaving her house in the evening. She was last sighted getting off at a metro station in a relatively wealthy part of town. She was conventionally attractive, with a small build and likely wouldn’t have been able to fight back had there been a struggle. After three months of her being missing, her teeth were found in her mother’s house, along with her collection of earrings.

“The second victim, Honda Arisa, disappeared two weeks after the first. She was older, and was last spotted at a gas station out in the suburbs late at night. Her car has yet to be found, but was a red _2013 Honda Civic,_ ironically. She was living with her parents at the time, and they made the missing persons report the next morning. The killer left her eyes by her parent’s pillow while they were gone.” Hinata takes a deep breath. “The last victim, later identified as Takahashi Harumi, disappeared between five to ten days later. Her family was out of town at the time of her disappearance, so they didn’t make the missing person’s report until a week after they arrived back. She was a university student and lived alone, and there are conflicting reports on her last appearance, but it’s assumed that she _wasn’t_ taken from campus because a security guard reported her leaving to get groceries.”

“It was a volunteer, actually,” Oikawa corrects, file not even in front of him.

Hinata huffs. “A _volunteer,_ then. Her fingernails were mailed to her parents shortly afterwards. In that case, he also sent a note on plain paper— printed, not handwritten. It simply read _I’m getting tired of this game.”_

Oikawa grins at him. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” he teases. “You know the second part of the case, right? The reason the Chimera Killer got his name?”

Hinata visibly pales, the sheer memory of the pictures on file churning his stomach. “Yeah. Random parts of the victim’s bodies— arms, flesh, legs—were found stitched together and left somewhere for people to find, already rotting, presumably dumped all at once early on.”

“The killer also sent photos of the various stitched together parts to the police. Tasteful,” Oikawa adds. “Now, with all that information, how did the police profile the killer again?”

Hinata scowls at his faux ignorance. “They assumed he was male, around thirty to fifty years old, a misogynist, and was taking out his hatred on women.”

“It’s the most vague thing they could come up with,” Oikawa says, rolling his eyes. “If this was a revenge killing scenario based around hatred of women— although I don’t doubt he _does_ hate women— then all the victims would resemble each other in some manner. In reality, they’re all _distinctly_ different— Honda is quite tall with short hair, while Nakamura is, as you described, quite petite. Now, the body parts were very intricately sewn together with medical grade stitches— this suggests a knowledge in anatomy _and_ that he has access to such tools. Likely, he’s someone with medical experience and works or worked as a resident doctor or a nurse. I’m personally leaning towards the former. I believe he’s in his late twenties, but owns his own place where he can kill and dissect the bodies. He’s charismatic, manipulative, meticulous. The lack of DNA on the victims’ fingernails supports that— no signs of a struggle.”

“And that he’s in his twenties?” Hinata asks. “Why do you think that?”

Oikawa grins, rolling his shoulders. “A hunch. Call it a killer’s instinct.” Shivers run down Hinata’s spine, Oikawa chuckling at the disgusted look on his face. “The women were young— around our age. He lured them in with charisma and false promises, likely knocking them unconscious before ultimately killing them.”

Hinata furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Why bother with knocking them unconscious if he’s going to kill them anyway?”

“A show of mercy? Guilt of the crime he’s going to commit?” Oikawa suggests. “He knows what he’s doing and has planned out doing it for some time. The question now is: what is his motive? What does he achieve by killing these women and stitching their body parts together?”

“Does he even need a motive?” Hinata says, distaste clear in his voice. “Can’t he kill just because he wants to?”

Oikawa tuts, wagging a finger at him. “To get in the mind of a killer, you have to think like a killer. To figure out his motive, you have to figure out his way of thinking. His morals, his beliefs, et cetera.”

“And? What are this killer’s morals—if any— and beliefs?”

Oikawa hums. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet,” he says. “I feel like the body parts could tell us a bit more yet. We could narrow down some more situational aspects of the killer and start searching for a suspect.”

Hinata swallows thickly, dread seeping into his skin. “So you want to visit the morgue?” 

“What, have you never been?” Oikawa asks.

“I never… had a reason to,” Hinata answers slowly. “Is it that surprising?”

“That you haven’t seen death? Despite being a part of the homicide unit of the police force?” Oikawa responds. “Maybe.”

A noise dies in Hinata’s throat, one he can’t control. He’s sure his hesitation tells all too much, but another lie would just dig the hole even deeper than before. His heart begins to flutter, pulse hammering in his ears as his breathing grows short. Memories press in the back of his eyes and he shoves them down, squeezing his eyes shut tight before looking at the floor.

“I’m— I was just— I’m only a rookie,” he stammers, pointedly avoiding Oikawa’s burning gaze. “They haven’t— I just— I just do grunt work for them. This is my first real case.”

Oikawa hums, and Hinata can _feel_ his eyes combing over him, taking in every inch of his reaction. “Sure. I guess we have very different ideas of grunt work, then.” He pushes off from his desk, walking closer towards Hinata. “Why don’t we leave now? There’s no time like the present.”

Hinata only pales further, growing unsteady on his feet. “N-now?”

“Yes. You should come too, though I won’t make you look if you don’t want to.” Oikawa looks him up and down. “I have no reason to be cruel to you.”

Hinata’s stomach stirs at Oikawa’s— mercy? Kindness? His heart stutters as he stands in silence, aware of how close they’ve become. There’s a foot between them and Hinata’s every instinct screams for him to move away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and he can’t explain why. 

“You need a reason to be cruel?” Hinata asks, finally. 

Oikawa shrugs, stepping back. “Sometimes. Don’t think about it.” Hinata moves to follow him back downstairs, only to nearly trip over his feet when Oikawa stops, spinning back around. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he mumbles, smiling idly to himself as he strolls back to the cabinets. He pulls out a drawer at waist height and reaches in, back turned to Hinata as he grabs something and shuts it once more. 

Hinata hasn’t even thought to ask what it is before Oikawa has tossed the object through the air, towards him with perfect aim. Hinata catches it, even when caught off guard, his reflexes saving him as he looks down to see the item he’s just been given. 

“I noticed the police haven’t given you one,” Oikawa says as Hinata stares down at the black pistol in his hands. “An off the books weapon for an off the books assignment. Consider it a gift.”

Hinata slides his thumb along the handle, the metal cool to the touch. It isn’t as if he’s never held a gun, but this is different. This isn’t a test, a scheduled list of ammunition and a weapon held in the safety of training. The weight of ammunition and lives lies in Hinata’s hands and he can feel it eat away at the threads holding together his composure. 

_Whatever it takes,_ he tells himself, brown eyes burned into his memory, and follows Oikawa out of the door. 

—

The morgue is cold, bright, and silent. The shock of walking out of the hot summer sun and into the human scale freezer is a shock to the system, one that is only surpassed by the strange way most personnel leave the room once they enter. Hinata supposes it’s protocol in their strange case, or a healthy sense of self preservation. 

Oikawa leads them through the rows of freezer drawers, counting aisles and box numbers until they find the ones they’re looking for. Hinata lingers a safe distance behind, shivering partially slightly because of the cold, watching Oikawa’s back as he inspects the different body parts. They’re well labeled and kept in the same condition they were found, besides being frozen for preservation’s purposes. Here, there is no stench of death, no rotting flesh sloughing from bone, no maggots growing. There is only the sterile, clean scent of disinfectant and formaldehyde, faint, like an afterthought to the sheer mass of corpses lying between four walls. 

Hinata takes to condensing his panic by counting the tiles on the ground, then adding the numbers in each row, then trying to smooth out the wrinkles on his sleeves. Oikawa doesn’t talk as he works, and Hinata’s thankful for the chance it gives him to _breathe—_ something he’s taken for granted since meeting him. He keeps his eyes open as he times his inhales, afraid of what he might meet in the darkness of his own mind. It’s much safer here, staring at Oikawa, admiring the way he pulls off his vinyl gloves and tosses them into the trash. 

“I think I’ve gotten all I can out of this,” he says, voice echoing throughout the room. It rings out, surrounding Hinata in a vaguely comforting manner. Oikawa turns around and offers a smile, closing his eyes as he tilts his head. It’d be cute, an unwarranted part of Hinata realizes, if not for the context of the situation. 

They walk out of the morgue and back outside, to where Oikawa had parked his car. It’s a black, expensive thing, with a long sunroof and beige leather interior that Hinata can’t help but melt into when he sits down. 

“There was something interesting about the eyes,” Oikawa says, the car humming to life underneath them. 

Hinata shudders. “The ones they found in the pillowcase?” 

Oikawa makes a noise of assent. “The way they were cut from the stem indicates the killer used a scalpel or equivalent medical tool, but he really had no regard for the eyes themselves. They were damaged at the back from the force used.”

“So he was sloppy?” Hinata asks. 

“With this, yes, but he obviously took care with some of the other parts. The limbs were all severed clean, and the nails were fully intact, not ripped out,” Oikawa explains. He pulls onto the main street, picking up speed as they whizz past the other vehicles around them. “He’s some kind of trophy killer, because he’s keeping things for himself, but he’s also doing this for the reactions of the public. He’s desperate for attention in one of the most drastic kinds of ways.”

Hinata watches Oikawa, his eyes focused as he stares at the road in front of him. “He doesn’t seem like a trophy killer— he’s literally throwing parts of his victims away.”

“But not the entire body,” Oikawa retorts. He bites his lip, and Hinata’s eyes drift across his face, taking in the clean cut of his jaw and cheekbones. “That should be objective one— find bodies, or at least more body _parts,_ and work backwards towards the killer’s identity. I _hate_ witness accounts, so I’ll leave you to go through whatever they say. Odds are half of it is hyperbole anyways. We’ll start mapping things out, and research the women murdered to figure out if their kidnapping was planned or opportunity. That’ll be a good start.”

“Wait wait wait,” Hinata says, pushing himself up as he looks over at Oikawa. “You made _me_ go to the morgue, you’re coming along to visit the witnesses.”

Oikawa raises his brows, flicking his eyes away from the road to stare at Hinata. “I wouldn’t say I _made_ you go.”

At that, Hinata snorts, leveling him a glare. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of observational genius? You knew I didn’t want to go and pressured me into it anyway.”

“Ah, I did, didn’t I?” Oikawa says, sparking another bout of frustration in Hinata. He hums, drumming his fingertips on the wheel. “Either way, I’m no genius. I’m just good at what I do.”

Hinata huffs, unconvinced, and turns to look out the window. “I bet you are,” he mutters. 

Oikawa sighs, dramatic and drawn out. “I vowed not to be cruel, and yet Hina-chan is so cruel to me,” he drawls, and Hinata very nearly chokes on his own spit at his self pity. “Fine. In the name of partnership we will commit all of tomorrow to the arduous task of dealing with witness accounts.”

“Good,” Hinata says, in lieu of thanks. There’s a part of him that reminds him of who exactly he’s speaking to, that his attitude could easily be mistaken for insult, but Hinata doesn’t care. No one said he had to be happy about working with Oikawa, and if there’s no way for Oikawa to hurt him without violating their agreement, he will continue in letting him know just how much he dislikes the arrangement. 

The road stretches out in front of them, and neither speaks. Hinata only realizes they’re headed towards his apartment when they turn past the bakery at the end of the road, a kind of begrudging acceptance of the situation settling into his gut. Oikawa pulls up outside of the complex and parks, turning towards Hinata as if to speak to him only to be met with the slam of a car door. 

“Hinata!” Oikawa calls out from his open window. Hinata pauses, turning back around with his arms crossed. “You can save the number I called you on. It’s how I’ll contact you tomorrow.”

He waves, either ignoring or pointedly oblivious to how Hinata’s shoulders tense. It isn’t until his car vanishes into the rest of traffic that Hinata can relax, or rather, let himself go, air flooding into his lungs. He carries himself up the steps and to the shoebox he calls home, collapses with his back to the door once it’s locked behind him. 

Day one of working with Oikawa, and he’s already close to pulling out his hair. His hands shake, whether from emotional exhaustion or sheer lack of sleep, he can’t be sure. All he knows is that he chose this, and he’d be damned if he lets Oikawa win the game without him playing too. 

—

The lights in the dim alleyway flicker as a final gunshot rings out, engulfing the space into silence. Wordlessly, men begin the task of clearing the bodies, no need for commands, only instinct. Oikawa lowers his gun and slips it back into his holster, sighing to himself as he tucks his hands into coat pockets and leans up against the brick wall. He drags his shoe on the ground in an attempt to wipe off a splatter of blood, and watches as Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa make their way over to his side. 

“Clean up should be here in ten,” Iwaizumi reports. The majority of the grunts have begun to disperse now that their job is over, the bodies piled neatly in a corner, awaiting the people who will strip them bare and throw them away. “Any headway on the Chimera case?”

Hanamaki’s eyes light up, and he leans in, a grin splitting across his face. “What’d you say it was? A doctor type? I can’t imagine that— it sounds too gruesome.”

“That detective you’re working with must be scared shitless,” Matsukawa snickers. “What’s worse— a psychopathic serial killer or _you?”_

Oikawa places a hand over his heart in mock indignation, looking over Matsukawa scornfully. “What reason does he have to be scared of me?” he jokes, before rolling his eyes. “Really, his terror is second to the anger. Just yesterday he was _pouting_ at me, all worked up because I didn’t want to visit the witnesses. Honestly, it was adorable.”

Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose. “You’re awful,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Give it up— he hates your guts.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten bored,” Hanamaki says. “You usually do, by this time.”

Oikawa hums. “Mm, no. Hinata is… different. I think I’m gonna see what he’s _actually_ afraid of,” he says, grinning widely. “It’ll make figuring him out all the more fun.”

“Keep me in the loop. I wanna know all the juicy details,” Hanamaki says, looping an arm around Matsukawa’s waist. “We’re set to report to the boss, if you wanna head back.”

Oikawa nods, waving them off before shoving his hands into his pockets. As his subordinates wander down the darkened alley, he turns to Iwaizumi and raises a brow. “You don’t approve,” he states. 

Iwaizumi huffs. “I haven’t got a beat on Hinata yet. You’re smart enough not to get yourself hurt.” 

Oikawa hums again, beginning to wander the opposite way. “I’ll leave the rest to you,” he says. He gingerly steps over a puddle of blood, looks over his shoulder, and casts Iwaizumi a knowing look before approaching the nondescript car idling nearby just for him. He slips in, and leaves the stench of gunpowder and metal behind him, closing his eyes once he sits in the car. As it pulls away, he pictures Hinata, lying in his bed. Would he be asleep in the hot summer night, facing the fan with the windows wide? Would he be awake, watching the city skyline and the headlights swing by, a hundred lights a mosaic of the electric world? Oikawa supposes either are just as likely, and pictures instead the anger brimming behind irises clouded with fear. 

_Strange,_ he thinks, not for the first time. His smile returns, warmth pinpricking down his neck. _So very strange indeed._

—

Hinata does not particularly enjoy speaking to the witnesses. One is an elderly shopkeeper with a thick accent who was obviously fed up with constant police visits. Another, a rich woman who turned up her nose at even _considering_ helping them beyond her original recount. Even the security guard gave no more information than necessary. Hinata muscles through each one, crossing them off his mental list as Oikawa stands behind him, appraising each one. 

It’s as they get into the car— _Oikawa’s_ car— that Hinata allows his frustration to show. He huffs loudly, crossing his arms as Oikawa starts the engine. 

“We should visit people that knew the girls if witnesses are a dead end,” Hinata suggests. “If you think he’s planned this out, he must’ve watched them for a while, right? They have to have _something_ in common.”

Oikawa hums, turning on his blinker. “Well, we have plenty of paper left to take notes on. Lets get to it, hm?”

It takes more time than Hinata expects to question the friends and family of women gone missing— hours of small talk with questions sprinkled between, separated by stretches of silence where no one could bring themselves to speak. All the while, Oikawa sits silent beside him, scratching constant notes onto a small pad of paper he brings with him. As they leave the last house and enter the car, Oikawa sets it down on the centre console, giving Hinata a chance to open it and flip through.

_NAMES: Arata Hoshiko, Fujikawa Mayu_

_RELATIONSHIP TO VICTIM Nakamura Mariko: Close friends_

_STATEMENT SUMMARY: Victim was well liked, but relatively bookish and shy, not drawing attention to herself in school. Her friends never noticed anyone with unusual interest in her— noted that she wished someone would take an interest in her._

_NAMES: Takahashi Sayuri, Takahashi Katsuo_

_RELATIONSHIP TO VICTIM Takahashi Harumi: Parents_

_STATEMENT SUMMARY: Victim was outgoing, played multiple sports, and was generally outdoorsy. Was not taking well to the city lifestyle, but had a support network of friends and family. Parents could not name specific friends, saying she had several and was an avid socialite._

“Really? _Avid socialite?”_ Hinata quotes, rereading Oikawa’s neat scrawl as they head to the next destination. 

Oikawa shrugs. “She was popular, and made friends as a hobby. She probably didn't put up a fight at all at first, going willingly with the suspect. It wouldn't take long to gain her trust,” he explains. “Are we visiting Honda’s friends or family?”

Hinata huffs, slamming the notebook shut. “Friends. Shimizu and Yachi— they haven't really been interviewed before.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue. “Well, let's hear them out, at least.”

Hinata narrows his eyes. “You know, you could be a little less… _obvious_ about how much you hate this.”

Oikawa laughs, shaking his head as he turns down a residential street. “I don’t hate it. I just wish we could have looked through their rooms, their lockers, their cars before talking to witnesses. Objects speak clearly in ways people don’t.”

With that, they stop outside of a modest semi-detached home with a one car driveway and a tiny yard overflowing with hydrangea bushes. Hinata gathers his things, grabbing a small recording device and a fresh pen before slipping out of Oikawa’s car. It stands out horribly in the small, humble neighbourhood, ritzy among the simple, but suits the suave manner in which Oikawa closes the door behind him and locks the doors, keys dangling from one hand. Together, for better or for worse, they approach the front door, Hinata leaning forwards to press the bell. 

Footsteps rumble the second the tone rings, muffled voices speaking as the sounds grow louder. The door is flung open to reveal two young women, roughly Hinata’s age, one shorter and blonde and the other tall, dark haired, and slightly imposing. The shorter’s eyes widen with confusion until Hinata pulls out his badge, resignation taking its place in a moment of frankness that nearly makes Hinata falter. 

“Yachi Hitoka and Shimizu Kiyoko, right?” Hinata asks. The girls nod— the shorter frantically, the taller not. “I’m Hinata Shouyou, and this is my… partner, Oikawa Tooru. We’re here investigating Miss Honda’s case as a part— on behalf of the special unit,” Hinata says, keeping his expression welcoming. “Would it be okay if we ask a few questions about her?”

The blonde looks up at her friend nervously, reaching out to grab the edge of her shirt. “Um, sure, of course, I— we—“

“We’re willing to help find Honda’s killer however we can,” the other finishes. She steps aside, leaving the doorway unobstructed. “I’m Shimizu. Please, come in.”

They make their way through the tiny entrance way into a kitchen, where Shimizu pulls out two chairs. The blonde girl, who Hinata assumes is Yachi, takes a seat, motioning for them to do the same. 

“You were Honda’s friends, right? Where did you know her from?” Hinata asks.

Yachi plays with her thumbs as she answers. “Um! Well, we met at school. We’ve been— were friends since we were young.”

“We were all in the crafts club together,” Kiyoko tells them. “Honda… she wasn’t that good, but she liked to make things.”

Hinata nods slowly, listening to Oikawa scratch notes down onto his pad. “Was she popular? A friendly person?”

“Friendly, yes, but I wouldn't say popular. She kept very much to herself,” Kiyoko says.

“But she makes close friendships with people she likes,” Yachi adds. “She has— had the same nail technician for years. She… would visit every other Sunday. We all would, together.”

Hinata offers a sympathetic smile. He wonders just how much these girls have heard of the fate of their friend, and remembers the bleak surroundings of the morgue. He attempts to push off the memories that begin to press forward in the back of his mind. “Did she have any enemies or anyone who had it out for her?”

Yachi, stumbling over her words, shakes her head. “What? No— there was no reason for anyone to hate her!”

“Leading up to her death, was there any suspicious activity from her or her surroundings?” He presses instead. “Did anyone follow her, say odd things to her, or do anything that seemed out of place?”

Yachi looks towards Kiyoko, now bouncing her leg with uncertainty. Oikawa is still beside him, pen unmoving, lending the room a certain kind of tension that stifles the air. Kiyoko’s expression falters, and she shakes her head. 

“No… nothing at all,” Kiyoko says, voice quiet. “She didn't like to express her worries and would often bottle things up. If something was going on, she didn't tell us.”

Hinata’s stomach seizes, face dropping as the two girls look down at her hands. “I’m sorry for the loss you experienced,” he tells them, bowing his head too. “Is it too much to ask another question?”

Kiyoko hesitates, turning to face Yachi. Yachi reaches her hand up to fiddle with the collar of her shirt, chewing on her lip. “I… I think that’s best. Nothing will change if we say no.”

“Did Honda have any places she visited often, besides school, her home, and your houses?” Hinata asks. 

“Well… she liked to go to the mall after school to go window shopping,” Yachi says. “Sundays at the nail salons, too.”

“Her appearance was importantly to her. She’s been going to the same hairdresser for years— she’s just down the street from us,” Kiyoko explains. 

Beside them, Oikawa's pen stops moving, the audible click of it being closed breaking some kind of tension in the room. “Interesting,” he mumbles. “You ladies have been _very_ helpful.”

“O-oh!” Yachi yelps, surprised by Oikawa’s sudden participation. 

Kiyoko smiles softly. “Thank you for helping bring Honda home.”

“We’ll do everything we can to bring her justice,” Hinata adds, standing up. He looks to Oikawa, who hums, lazily gathering his things. A smug kind of air clings to his rumpled button up shirt, one that tastes bitter with the heaviness of grief in the room. Hinata is quick to follow him outside, to escape the stifling reminder that the bloodstains of this innocent girl have yet to be washed away. And still, Oikawa smiles, unfazed or uncaring or both, clicking the keys to start his car and sliding into the driver’s seat without a care. Hinata pauses in front of the door, hesitates, and opens it, sitting next to him as he fiddles with the radio dials. 

“You seem pleased for someone who thought this was a waste of time,” Hinata says, no small amount of bite to his tone. The engine rumbles almost inaudibly beneath them as the machine hums to life. Oikawa pulls out onto a busy street, and clicks his tongue. 

“Well, these girls gave us plenty of information to work with. It means that your insistence wasn’t useless after all,” he tells him. “The rest of them were as good as any, which means that we spent half the day talking to a wall— or rather, _you_ did.”

Hinata huffs, and looks out of the window. Oikawa manages to make being right sound like an insult, wrapped up in smart words and a cheery tone that betrays the sentiment at every corner. He wants to speak, to fight back and make him apologize for the slight he never said, and yet finds himself silent, stewing in discomfort as he stares out of the tinted windows. 

The rest of the ride to Hinata’s apartment is silent. Even with his gaze fixed to the blur outside of his window, Hinata’s eyes drift back to the man beside him, to Oikawa. His focus on the road is infuriating, as if he hadn’t just disregarded Hinata’s ideas and work, as if there is nothing wrong at all. Frustration turns to restlessness, turns into antsy movements and the shuffling of his things as he slowly begins to count the streets before his turn— _four, three, two—_

“We’re almost here,” Oikawa says, as if Hinata hasn’t been waiting for the moment he could escape. There’s a warmth to his voice that wasn’t there before, and Hinata loathes to call it pleasant. He freezes until the soft _click_ of the doors being unlocked awakens him from his trance, and throws it open without even thinking to look behind him. The slam of the door echoes down the deserted street as Hinata riffles through his pockets for his key. 

Halfway between the car and the front entrance, Hinata looks over his shoulder to see not the car pulling away, but Oikawa walking leisurely outside of it. Whipping his head back forwards, Hinata quickens his pace, rushing to the door before he can catch up. Hinata doesn’t care what he wants to say or do— he only wants the relative comfort of his shoebox home. Shuffling the papers in his arms, Hinata tries to punch the door combination, fingers shaking as they slip over the keys. He curses under his breath, hits the reset button, and hastily punches in the code, only for a presence behind him to make him freeze. 

“You know, Hina-chan, this will be a lot easier if we agree to trust each other,” Oikawa says, indignance clouding the low, warning undertone. The hair on the back of Hinata’s neck raises, a sense of danger knotting in his gut. He looks over his shoulder, eyes cast down as he slowly shifts to face Oikawa. 

“How am I supposed to trust _you?”_ Hinata shoots back, narrowing his eyes. He presses his back against the cool metal door, tilting his chin up to make eye contact with Oikawa. Surprisingly, he pouts, bottom lip shiny and pink and _not_ what Hinata should be focusing on this close to a killer. 

“We have an _agreement,_ Hina-chan. A contract,” Oikawa reminds him, lip quirking into a smirk. “You help me help your department catch this killer. Simple, no?”

“I— I don’t see how that means I have to trust you,” Hinata stammers, furrowing his brows. “You. A _mafia executive._ My job isn’t to trust you.”

“But that’s no fun,” Oikawa whines, tilting his chin. “And that’s not what you signed onto. This is a team effort… and I can’t be the pitcher if you aren’t up to bat.”

“That isn't— that's not how baseball works,” Hinata says.

“I can’t spike if you don’t set it to me.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Oikawa huffs as he waves his hand, rolling his eyes. “My lack of fundamental knowledge for sports aside, you get where I’m going with this.”

Growing restless, Hinata crosses his arms. “I really don’t.”

“Then let me explain a little clearer: let’s get to know each other better before leaping for each other’s neck.”

“I’m— I’m not leaping at your neck!” Hinata exclaims. 

“Of course not. Neither am I for yours. But I think you could stand to be a little more… open, hm?” Oikawa says, flashing a grin. He moves forwards, further into Hinata’s space, raising one arm to bracket above Hinata’s head. Hinata’s eyes widen, blood rising to his face as Oikawa leans down to his level. “Why don’t I take you out for dinner sometime this weekend? No talk about the case, work, killers… just you and me. Two people sharing friendly conversation over good food.” 

Hinata inhales sharply, taking in the depths of Oikawa’s eyes. Half lidded, he stares unblinkingly, still smiling, silent. He can smell the faint notes of pine wafting from his muted cologne, warm like the heat that radiates off his skin. Having him so close clouds his mind, making grasping at an answer to his question difficult. He takes a few seconds to comprehend what he’s asking before being shocked into a fluster, ears burning red and heart beating against his ribs. 

“W—what?” Hinata squeaks, body pressed flush to the wall. “You— you’re joking, right?”

 _What good is it for you to spend time with me?_ he thinks to himself. 

“Why would I joke about this? You… intrigue me,” Oikawa hums, moving an inch closer. “You’re like an open book written in another language— I can't get a read on you.”

“I—I could say the same about you,” Hinata says. “I can never tell what you’re thinking, whether you’re taking this or _anything_ seriously or not. It’s… irritating.”

Oikawa’s smile grows, eyes brightening. “There! You see— _that’s_ why we should. There’s no harm in wanting to know a little more about each other, hm?” He leans in unimaginably closer, so that their foreheads nearly touch. “What’s there to be afraid of?”

 _You,_ Hinata’s mind supplies. Still, a part of his mind tugs at him, at the possibility of some kind of connection, another person to listen to his words. A part of him _craves_ it, so badly it nearly keels in his knees, forcing him to nod dumbly with Oikawa’s breath fanning out on his skin. 

“Okay,” he mumbles, the fighting spirit drained from him that instant. Oikawa eyes glint with smugness and glee, finally letting up and stepping away to give Hinata the space to breathe. 

“Wonderful,” he says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. “I’ll message you the details.” 

Frozen with his back against the door, Hinata watches soundlessly as Oikawa walks backwards, giving a small wave before turning on his heel and approaching his car. He looks over his shoulder once before stepping in, brown hair blowing in the slight summer breeze, his smile the last thing Hinata sees. 

The moment Oikawa disappears from view, Hinata’s breath rushes out of him, legs shaking, eyes wide as they stare at the ground. Slowly, he turns, autonomously unlocking the door to his building. He sinks to the ground, head falling into his hands as he faces the reality he’s just resigned himself to. The hidden things in the back of his mind scatter towards the edges of the darkness, threatening to overtake him once. 

_The death of me,_ Hinata thinks, hugging his knees. _He will be the death of me._


	3. Disclosure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A DAY LATE WHOOPS SORRY ABOUT THAT KSGNSKJGN  
> anyway this chapt kicks off Spicy. hope yall enjoy it!!!  
> \- mooks
> 
> —
> 
> hi sorry this is late but i am here to say THIS IS A FUCKING AWESOME CHAPTER AND I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY IT!! its so much fun and i love writing oikawa and aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAA!! have fun!  
> -kj

Hinata falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow, body exhausted after having washed the day of his skin with a tepid shower. Sheets tangle around his legs as the ache in his muscles fades into nothingness, the gentle lull of sleep sending him drifting further away from the world of the living. 

And then, he dreams. 

Oikawa stands in the corner of Hinata’s bedroom, wearing the same clothes he had been wearing that day. His broken watch does not tick and his smile sends a shiver down Hinata’s back even here. They're in a familiar dance— Oikawa stepping forwards, Hinata stepping back, forwards and back, forwards and back. Hinata licks lips suddenly void of moisture and stumbles as his knees hit the edge of his bed— he falls back, and Oikawa follows, stepping between his legs. Hinata’s heart pounds incessantly in his chest, breath caught in his throat when Oikawa’s hands push his shirt up to expose his torso. Skin on skin leaves a fuzzy sensation in Hinata’s gut, and he twitches, reaching out for something. His hand grabs his own sheets, bunched up and wrinkled beside him. 

“Now, now… What’s there to be afraid of?” Oikawa asks, voice a heady murmur. He straightens, taking a step back to stand fully, and begins to work at unfastening the buttons on his shirt from the top down, exposing the smooth, unblemished expanse of skin underneath. Time stretches thin, slowing down to a mere crawl as Oikawa finishes, shrugging the garment off his shoulders and onto the floor. He looks back to Hinata with a half-lidded gaze that feels all too familiar and moves in once more, hand splayed on Hinata’s stomach. Oikawa pushes him back so that his back is flat against the mattress and begins to lower himself, lips brushing across Hinata’s stomach. 

Kneeling in front of him, still kissing the planes of his abs, Oikawa begins to unbutton Hinata’s pants, deft fingers freeing his cock from the confines of his pants and underwear alike. Hinata’s heart stops, half propped up on his elbows, mouth agape as Oikawa’s face splits into a wicked grin. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, slowly pumping Hinata’s dick with one hand, rubbing his thigh with the other. No thoughts enter Hinata’s mind besides _fuuuuuu—_ cut off by the sight of Oikawa lowering his head and shutting his eyes, lips parting as he takes the head of Hinata’s dick into his mouth. Hinata’s eyes stay wide open, fixed on the spectacle before him— Oikawa between his thighs, lips stretched around him, tongue swirling, _teasing_ as he begins to bob his head. It’s soft and wet and hot, and Hinata keens when Oikawa first hollows his cheeks and sucks, elbows buckling slightly. 

Oikawa’s eyes flash open, and Hinata nearly screams from how smug he manages to look with a cock in his mouth. Most other thoughts evade him— Oikawa quickens the pace of the hand still jerking Hinata off then bobs his head to meet it. He hums, hand moving to press flat against his hip to give him room to take Hinata deeper. The vibrations fizzle through Hinata’s gut and coil at his navel, toes curling as his breaths become indistinguishable from needy whines of pleasure. Oikawa runs his tongue up the underside of Hinata’s dick before pulling back completely, sucking harshly on the head once more. Hinata scrambles to keep himself upright, half resigned to beg, only to watch Oikawa open his jaw and take him down the back of his throat. He stops when his nose presses against the coarse hairs on his pelvis, a puff of air leaving him as he looks up, glassy eyed and awaiting Hinata’s reaction.

And Hinata can only imagine what a sight he is, on the precipice of climax, hands wound tight in his own sheets, thighs quivering with the exertion it takes not to clamp them around Oikawa’s ears. Oikawa pulls back, sinks down, swallows around him, and that’s all Hinata needs to come undone, heels pressing against his bed frame, back arching as he cums down Oikawa’s throat. He can feel him still swallowing around him, a fading sensation that lingers as the heat becomes insufferable, image blurring as the dream is cut short.

Hinata jolts upright, panting, drenched in a layer of sweat. His sheets are tangled at his ankles, kicked off in the sweltering summer night. His eyes dart to the corners of the room, the lingering images of his dream still burned onto his eyes. His eyes fall on his alarm clock, blinking soundlessly— four am. Slowly, as his senses return to him, he becomes aware of the dampness in his underwear, the physical reminder of what he just dreamed of.

Oikawa Tooru, _Oikawa fucking Tooru,_ between his legs, dick in his mouth. Hinata slaps his hands to his face and groans, uncomfortable with the now drying mess of cum in his underwear and the far more uncomfortable reality of having conjured that image in the throes of unconscious desire. Suddenly, all previous exhaustion is gone, leaving him thrumming with restless energy that can only be used to clean up the evidence of his shame.

 _He’s hot,_ Hinata admits to himself as he tosses his soiled underwear in the hamper. He pictures Oikawa, eyes fluttering shut, saliva coating his lips as he takes Hinata down to the hilt—

Hinata squeezes his eyes shut and holds back a scream. _He’s so fucking hot._

The light in his bathroom burns his eyes when he flicks it on. Squinting against it, Hinata dampens a cloth and shakes his head, willing the thoughts out of his mind. He’s stressed, he reasons, and pent up. Oikawa is frustratingly pretty and undeniably attractive and the amount of time they spend together lends his mind enough material to fathom lewd images that sate his desire. 

“I’m not attracted to him,” Hinata tells his reflection, voice cracking. “I’m not attracted to him at all.”

When he tries to go back asleep that night, all that awaits him are the reminders. He repeats those words to himself, again and again, until the sun begins to rise.

—

 _Reservation for La Fleur du Papillon,_ Oikawa’s message reads. _7:30pm check in time. Semi-formal. I’ll pick you up at 7:15._

Hinata tries not to roll his eyes as he throws his phone onto his bed, freshly made with newly washed sheets. He faces his shoebox closet and pushes aside old college sweaters, reaching for the two nice button downs in his closet— one black, one white. He reaches for the former, figuring Oikawa has already seen the second, and throws it back onto his bed. 

Why Oikawa chose to do this, Hinata can’t be sure. Even without his presence, he feels like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard, being inspected under a magnifying glass. It leaves his skin crawling in a way all too familiar, heart pushing on his rib cage in an effort to escape. He unfolds a pair of fitted black pants from the shelf and grabs a belt, steadying himself as his breathing begins to grow short. 

_Not now,_ he pleads to himself. _Not now._

He grips the clothes tighter, not daring to close his eyes. The floorboards beneath his feet creak, warped at the edges as if caught in the process of breathing. 

“Shouyou?” a young girl’s voice calls. _“Shou_ -you,” it sings, muffled by the boards. 

Hinata shoves his face into the bundle of clothes and screams at the top of his lungs until his throat goes numb and ears deafened by the sound of his own heart beat. Panting, he stops, silence creeping closer. 

No response. 

He exhales, falling forward onto his bed, clean sheets smelling of lemon and sea breeze. It’s the only smell that graces his senses. Nothing else. Nothing more.

He checks the clock, groaning. _6:53pm,_ it taunts. _Not yet._ Never did he think he’d be looking forward to leaving his apartment to see Oikawa, of all people. 

He quickly stops that train of thought when the image of Oikawa kneeling between his legs returns. Caught between memories and delusions, he sheds the pyjamas he’s worn all day with renewed vigor, trading them for the formal wear Oikawa requested. Semi-formal wear. Semantics. 

The shades of black between his shirt and pants don’t match, but it hardly matters now. The shirt still fits. His pants stay up with the help of a belt. He’s _fine._ The floorboards beneath his feet hold nothing but shoddy insulation. It is 6:59pm. These facts are all true, and yet Hinata looks over his shoulder three times in a minute, checking to see if the door is still closed. 

He’s pulling on his shoes when the unbearable silence of his room is broken. The tip-tappy knock on his door is both a curse and heaven-sent. Hopping on one foot to fix the heel of his shoe, he stumbles towards the front door, unlatching the deadbolt and swinging it open to reveal Oikawa, immaculate as always. He’s wearing a deep red jacket over a white shirt, matching slacks hugging tight his long legs. Hinata tries not to let his eyes slip lower than his chin, meeting Oikawa’s gaze. 

“Y-you’re early,” he manages to stammer, holding his head high. 

Oikawa raises a brow, lips pulling upwards into a smile. “Is that so wrong?”

Hinata wishes he could say _no_ without seeming insane. He grabs his wallet off of the side table and stuffs it in his back pocket, slipping underneath Oikawa’s arm to exit his flat. The warmth of his body is near unbearable, and Oikawa refuses to move, even as Hinata fumbles with the key to lock the door. 

“You seem nervous…” Oikawa says, voice low and quiet. Hinata, still trapped between his front door and Oikawa’s arm, freezes, two kinds of chills moving down his spine. “Did something happen?”

Hinata thinks: _fluttering eyelids, red lips, low hum, brown eyes—_

Hinata thinks: _f̶̜̐l̵̩͐o̶͙͌o̵͈͘r̵̪̅b̵̪̅o̷̤̔a̷̝̅ȑ̵͉d̴͖̒s̸̗͑ ̵̪͝f̵̥̈l̴̦̑o̴̒ͅö̷̭́r̷͖̀b̴̥͐o̴̼ą̵̾ṟ̶͝d̷͎̈́s̷̛̠ ̷̺̉f̵͖͛l̷̬̋ơ̸̼õ̶͔r̷͇͋b̷̲̎o̶̝̚a̵̪̓ř̸̦d̸̨̍s̸̏ͅ ̸͌ͅf̵͉̊l̸̤̒ǫ̶͗o̶̹̓r̶͊ͅb̶̭̽o̵̯̎ȧ̸̻r̸̯͝d̸͕̏s̶̼̈́ ̸͍͌—_

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells him, voice shaking slightly. Oikawa drops his arm, letting him move past. “I’m just— tired, is all.”

Oikawa nods slowly, following him down the dimly lit hall. “Well, _Papillon_ has nice coffee. I’ll buy you some, since you don’t drink,” he drawls.

Hinata jogs to keep up with Oikawa’s long strides and furrows his brow. “Not going to get me to try more of your fancy wines?”

Oikawa hums. “Not if you don’t want to, no.” 

The response surprises Hinata out of his momentary stupor. Words fail him as Oikawa leads them to his car, and it’s near frustrating how even Oikawa’s kindness leaves him guessing. Still, it can’t be disingenuous— at least, it doesn’t seem that way. What reason would Oikawa have to be _thoughtful_ if not some kind of care?

Oikawa fiddles with the radio stations the whole time they drive, snippets of songs cutting in and out as they weave through traffic. He takes back streets that Hinata never knew existed, residential streets leading to underpasses that take them straight to the city’s core. The music fills the silence that conversation, or lack thereof, would otherwise fill. It’s not comfortable, and Hinata’s skin still crawls, but the song on the radio is familiar, and the way that Oikawa hums along is _just_ human enough for him to forget about their reality for a moment. His voice is nice, in tune and gentle, with an inherent sense of rhythm kept by the drumming of his fingertips on the steering wheel.

“Here we are,” he says, motioning with his chin to a nondescript looking hotel. Warm light floods the valet in front, creating a glare against the tinted windows of the entrance. He pulls up to a sharply dressed worker and smiles, stepping out of the car to round Hinata’s side, leaning in close to say something in his ear. Hinata looks away as he exchanges keys and cash, only opening his eyes when Oikawa pulls open his door and motions for him to follow. 

The restaurant is located on the second floor, past the concierge and the front desk. Their footsteps are muted by soft red carpet, muffling the sounds the Oikawa’s gold toed dress shoes make and they move up the steps. The restaurant entrance is dimly lit, with faux incandescent bulbs hanging at even increments from the ceiling, casting a soft yellow glow down at their hostess. Wordlessly, she nods, leading them through the crowded interior to a small, private booth, not unlike the one where they first met. The chairs here are higher, and the music that plays a slightly faster tempo, with an aura that is somehow more and less intimidating all at the same time. Hinata takes a seat across from Oikawa and instantly crosses his legs, picking up the menu in order to stare at anything besides his face. 

“It’s on me,” Oikawa mentions again. Hinata tries his best to ignore the undertones in his voice and fails miserably. “I’d recommend the salmon.”

Hinata scans his eyes over the meal. The description, at least, is written in Japanese, even if the title is a mess of vowels he can’t begin to understand. “How do you even find these places?” he asks, mostly to himself. 

“I like nice things. Good food, good clothes…” Oikawa’s voice trails off, and just as Hinata looks up over the menu, their eyes meet. “Good company.”

Hinata looks away quickly, scanning over the list of coffees that all look the same. “What are you getting then?”

“The red snapper, probably. It’s my favourite. There’s a nice white wine that pairs well with it, but I won’t order alcohol if it upsets you,” he tells him.

Hinata blinks, confused. He dares to look back at Oikawa, furrowing his brow. “What? It doesn’t bother me. I— _I_ don’t drink. You can.”

Oikawa smiles, closing his menu with a soft _clap._ “Wonderful. Then you should get the second coffee on the list. It’s really nice— and sweet. You seem the type to like sweet things.”

Hinata hesitates before nodding, setting the menu down. “I— I guess.”

Oikawa hums, and motions for their waitress again to order. The french names of each dish fall from his tongue with ease, pitch dropping lower as the foreign language leaves his mouth. When the waitress leaves and Oikawa turns back to face him, Hinata has to control his blush, clearing his throat as his ears burn. A moment of silence passes as Oikawa’s smile slowly widens.

“So… wanna play a game?” he asks, leaning forwards onto his elbows.

Hinata tilts his head warily. “A... game?”

“Yep. Twenty questions— I ask you a question, you ask me one,” Oikawa says, foot knocking against the leg of the table. “You go first, out of courtesy, of course.” His glass of wine shakes slightly, and Hinata swallows.

“Uh… okay?” Hinata says, voice betraying him to show his apprehension. His eyes dart around the room quickly before he settles on a question. “What’s with you and french restaurants?”

Oikawa hums, as if considering his answer. “Well, I learned french when I was younger to impress people. I’ve only been to France once, though, and that was the most I ever had to speak it. I don’t want to forget the language, so this is my excuse to practice. That, and the food is good. Does that answer your question?” When Hinata nods, his face splits into a grin. “Great— my turn.”

Hinata’s stomach sinks as he takes a sip of his coffee, the sweet chocolate cream washing away the bitter aftertaste. 

“So, what do you do besides being a detective?” Oikawa asks. Hinata exhales, letting the tension in his shoulders drop at the unassuming question.

“I… I run, mostly. I like jogging in the less busy neighborhoods,” Hinata tells him, somewhat sheepishly. 

“Long distance running? You must have good stamina,” Oikawa comments, licking his lips. “That’s always handy.”

“I… guess?” Hinata rubs the back of his neck. 

“Is it just jogging, or are you a gym rat?” 

“Mm, like weights? I do legs exercises to help run, but every so often I’ll try other stuff,” Hinata explains. He pauses, staring down at the table as he realizes Oikawa has asked three questions. “Wait. Isn’t it my turn?”

Oikawa leans back, raising both hands. “Guilty as charged. Your turn, Shou-chan.”

Hinata freezes up at the nickname, inhaling sharply as his ears burn. His mind goes blank, a running line of ones and zeros as he struggles to come with something to ask. 

“You— what— why does the mafia… let you _be_ here?” Hinata asks, the question forming out of rough hewn phrases. “How can you just… help the detectives and take _me_ here?”

Oikawa’s eyes narrow, his smirk sharp as he swirls the wine in his glass. “Good question. Ballsy, but good. Here’s what I can tell you: I answer to two people. Myself, and the boss. This benefits the family as a whole, and the boss trusts me to make these decisions on my own,” Oikawa tells him. He sighs, pursing his lips. “Not to say that there aren't people who voice their… _disapproval_ of my methods. Just that they have equal or lesser power than me, can’t do anything about it, and know deep down I’m right.”

Hinata stares in shocked silence as Oikawa finishes, taking a long drink. He can barely hold back a shudder as Oikawa licks his lips as he sets the wine glass down, the power radiating off of him terrifying and all encompassing. “Oh,” he responds. “Okay.”

Oikawa’s shoe taps against Hinata’s shin. “My turn, then,” he continues, voice cloyingly unassuming. “Why is it that when I search your name, nothing comes up?”

The world freezes, ice shooting through Hinata’s veins. Oikawa’s visage grows blurry as he blinks, shaking his head and clearing the knot formed in his throat. “W-what?”

“I mean, why is there _nothing?”_ Oikawa presses, the corner of his lip twitching upwards as he leans forwards. “Everybody leaves some trace on the world, but you? Besides your resume and photos, some police related events, there really isn’t _anything._ And strangely enough, nothing until after the age of eighteen at all.”

_He knows he knows he knows he—_

“I honestly can’t think of why,” Oikawa concludes. “I figured it’d be best to ask, no?”

Hinata grips the table, steadying himself as his head grows lighter. _He doesn’t know,_ he tells himself. _He can’t know._

“I—I wouldn't know,” Hinata stammers quickly. “But—”

Hinata stops, watching as Oikawa’s eyes begin to narrow, a smile wiped clean from his face. A new kind of intensity forms in lieu of his playful aura, one that’s nothing but threatening, one that forces Hinata to remember Iwaizumi’s words.

_It’s useless to lie._

“Now now, that’s not the truth, is it?” Oikawa says. He drums his fingertips on the table in a slow, lazy rhythm, eyes locked on Hinata’s unflinchingly. “It’s awfully rude of you to lie like that, you know. And after I was so gracious to try and become your friend.”

 _“Friend?”_ Hinata replies, disbelief still palpable through the bone cold fear.

“Of course. You’re _intriguing,_ and you don’t even know it. Smart, clever… witty,” Oikawa says, eyes flicking up and down to survey Hinata in a way that makes him feel far more than just exposed. Sweat beads on Hinata’s neck as Oikawa raps his knuckles on the table again. “But you haven’t been so kind to me. It makes me wonder if you’re even trying when you lie so obviously to my face. Really, don’t you want to be nice? What’s holding you back?”

Hinata forces himself to breathe, slowing the rapid pace of his thoughts. He times his inhales to each _tap_ of Oikawa’s fingers on the table, slowing his heart rate. “I— I’m sorry,” he mumbles, blinking hard. 

Oikawa raises his brows, a smile returning to his face. “Oh?”

Hinata nods, steeling himself against shining brown eyes and a whip-like tongue. “I wasn’t honest. The— the truth is that there’s nothing about me before I turned eighteen because I was a foster kid,” he explains, taking another deep breath. “Child wards of the government have certain protections.”

“I’m aware of that,” Oikawa says. “But yours… How do I put this? I’m good at getting information— it’s my job. Your identity wasn’t just protected. It’s like it didn’t exist in the first place. _That’s_ what makes it so different. The cases of foster children aren’t this hard to uncover. You can’t blame me for being curious, now can you?”

Hinata reaches forwards, grabbing his cup of coffee to feel the heat between his hands. “Well, I answered your question,” he tells him. 

“You did. Not that hard, was it?” Oikawa grins. His foot taps against Hinata’s ankle once more. “You know, I haven’t complimented your outfit yet. You look _very_ sharp.”

Hinata’s mouth falls open, hands instinctively smoothing over his black shirt. “I— what? I just— I— thank you?”

Oikawa tilts his glass towards Hinata, taking another sip. Hinata watches his lips press against it, the golden tones wine glowing under the incandescent bulbs. His Adam's apple bobs once slowly, time slowing down as he swallows. He sets down the glass and licks his lips, and suddenly Hinata can’t think about anything but those lips around his cock, smile stretched by his girth. 

“Are you alright? You’re getting really red,” Oikawa asks, tilting his head. Hinata chokes on his own spit and shakes his head, quickly banishing the lewd image from his mind. 

“No— I mean yeah, I’m fine, I just…” He trails off, skin growing hotter by the minute. 

Oikawa chuckles, biting on his lip as he watches Hinata continue to fluster. “I feel no guilt in telling you your blush is adorable then, since you aren’t dying.”

Hinata sputters again, half out of surprise and half from uncertainty how to react. Unprofessional isn’t the first word that comes to mind, but it would describe the way Oikawa’s foot has been caressing his ankle for the last half hour, and yet Hinata can only assign the term _unreal_ to the entirety of the night’s events. 

He’s saved by the arrival of their meals, delicately plated and artfully arranged on oversized dishes. The waitress doesn’t bother with small talk as they’re set down in front of them, simply leaving with an unobtrusive bow, giving Hinata a much needed distraction to dive into. 

The food is delicious, savoury without being too rich, and exactly what Hinata likes. He holds himself back from wolfing it all down within seconds, but quickly becomes engrossed with it anyways, unaware of how Oikawa watches him with an amused smile.

“I take it you like it?” he asks, raising a brow and taking a bite of his own meal. Hinata looks up, nodding as he swallows another mouthful.

“It’s really good,” he admits, suddenly embarrassed at his haste. The back of his neck burns, but Oikawa can’t see that. He can only see the sheepish way in which Hinata squirms under his gaze.

Oikawa picks up a piece of his meal, holding it out across the table. “Here, try this,” he says motioning for Hinata to take it. Without thinking, Hinata leans forwards, mouth closing around the food as Oikawa pulls his fork back, resting it against his plate as Hinata hums in delight.

“I like it,” he tells him, sitting back in his chair. Oikawa’s smile grows, and his foot knocks against Hinata’s ankle under the table.

“I’m glad. Next time, we can try something a little different if you’re up for it,” Oikawa says, sipping his drink.

“Next time?” Hinata asks, pausing.

Oikawa hums, smirking. “What, you think this is the last time? It’s important to maintain a strong relationship outside of work in order for us to work well together. I think that requires more than just a single nice night out, don’t you think?”

Hinata hesitantly nods. “Right,” he says, looking down at his food. “Work.” Oikawa’s bright, airy laughter makes him look up in confusion. “What?”

He waves a hand, still smiling. “It’s nothing. Just that you’re perceptive in the strangest ways, is all.”

Hinata pauses, unsure how to respond. Uncertainty creeps up his spine, and in the end, he chooses to simply continue eating, filling the silence with savoury food and the warmth of the lights around them. Somehow, his earlier disdain for Oikawa has fallen away, though not completely, enough to let him enjoy the company of another person. A charming, funny, and oddly kind person. Hinata finishes his plate before Oikawa, giving him time to sip on his coffee and contemplate how exactly he ended up where he is. Despite his best efforts to be skeptical, Oikawa feels genuine, even if Hinata knows he can’t be. The best lies are a hair’s breadth from the truth, after all, and that line they both walk is one he’s sure Oikawa knows intimately. Yet, it’s getting harder to fight against the inclination to trust him, harder to hold up the distance of anger and apathy. Hinata, after all, has never been one for hatred.

Hinata stops, looking down at his empty glass. _But I am,_ he tells himself. He is, because Oikawa is a killer who knows how to talk, and the line they walk is no less dangerous than the double lines separating a highway. If he leans too far into this beautiful, warm, alluring disguise, he’ll fall right through into something worse than oncoming traffic, and it’ll be his own fault.

“Did you like the coffee?” Oikawa asks, startling Hinata from his stupor. “You’ve finished it off. I can order another, if you want.”

Hinata feels himself flush again, involuntarily, unsure why his first reaction is to fluster whenever Oikawa addresses him. Maybe it has something to do with his subconscious desire for his head between his legs. 

“I— uh— it’s nice,” he stutters, unsure what to say. “I don’t really drink coffee often— it’s really bitter. B-but I like this. It’s not strong at all.”

Oikawa smiles nodding. He lifts his glass and finishes the rest of his wine with one mouthful, Adam's apple bobbing slowly. Hinata watches him without meaning to, watches Oikawa’s tongue licks his lips as he sets the empty glass onto the table.

“Interesting,” Oikawa murmurs, drumming his fingertips on the table. “Well, if you don’t want anything more, I can get the cheque and drive you home, if you’d like. I’m glad you’ve stayed this long.”

Hinata blinks, surprised. “You thought I’d, what, leave?”

Oikawa shrugs. “You’re unpredictable. It’s nice to know we both enjoyed the evening.”

He cants his head to the side, waving a hand at a nearby server. As they speak, Hinata takes a moment to collect the thoughts swarming in his head. It feels strange to be _enjoying_ anything with Oikawa, and yet, here they are, sitting across from one another, with Oikawa’s foot still brushing against his ankle. Hinata would be lying if he said he isn’t some kind of content, even with the tightening in his chest that he can’t explain. The prospect of returning to his flat doesn’t feel as welcome as it did in the hours before and, if anything, Hinata hopes to hold onto this moment for just a second longer. 

Oikawa looks back at him, tucking a sleek black card back into his wallet. “Well, let’s get going then,” he says, smiling wide as he rises to a stand. “Wouldn’t want you getting back _too_ late, would we?”

His taunting doesn’t even frazzle Hinata. With a small grin and a churning chest, he stands, following Oikawa out of the small bubble they crafted on their own. He leaves behind the temporary stasis of it all with the knowledge that Oikawa has gained something greater than he could’ve expected— an understanding.

—

Oikawa is at his front door two days later, late in the afternoon with hours of daylight dwindling. Hinata is, luckily, dressed, and is met with Oikawa smiling pleasantly, a long black jacket slung haphazardly over his shoulders, an umbrella in hand.

“We’re going to collect some of Miss Honda’s medical records— grab a jacket, it’s raining out,” he tells him, leaning against the frame. 

Hinata looks over his shoulder, at the tiny shoebox sized window. Water taps against the glass, running down in thick streams. Hinata opts out of wearing his official police jacket, as waterproof as it is, and gambles being cold in just a sweater as he reaches for his umbrella. With that, shuts off the lights, locks his apartment, and follows Oikawa to his awaiting car.

“Where are we headed?” Hinata asks as he slams close his passenger door, collapsing his umbrella and throwing it by his feet. 

“An optometrist's office. I wanna follow up on something strange I saw in her remains,” Oikawa explains. His hands, cloaked with black leather gloves, grip the steering wheel loosely. If Hinata didn’t know better, he’d say Oikawa didn’t even care.

Hinata furrows his brow. “Her remains… you mean her eyes?” 

Oikawa hums nonchalantly. Realizing he’ll gain nothing more from pushing further, Hinata sighs, leaning back into his seat as they head into the city, away from the suburban neighbourhood where Honda had lived. They pull into an underground garage, sheltered by the rain, and park in a sheltered corner, away from the rest. Still confused, Hinata steps out of the car, shivering in the unseasonable chill of the underground. Oikawa looks over to him, shaking his head before shrugging off his coat.

“Take this— you look frozen,” he says, placing the coat around Hinata’s shoulders. It’s ridiculously large on him, swallowing his shoulders and engulfing him in the scent of muted cologne and something sharp and metallic. Either way, it’s warm, lined with a well worn fabric that quells the cold as they head into an elevator. Oikawa reaches in front of Hinata to select their floor, leaning back as the elevator begins to hum.

When the doors open again, they’re greeted with a bland hallway with dim lights and a multitude of office doors lining it. Oikawa walks past each of them, Hinata following, observing the tacky blue wallpaper as they reach a door labelled _Sato Optometry._ Hinata squints, looking through the glass at the dark waiting room. “I think they’re closed,” he says, just as Oikawa opens the door with a soft _click._

“Stand there, will you?” he says, taking two steps indoors. Hinata watches in shock as Oikawa faces a small security panel and deftly disables the alarms, smiling all the while. The lights flick on, engulfing the deserted room in an eerie brightness alien to the gloom outdoors.

“Did— did you just—” Hinata stammers, rushing in and closing the door behind him. “Did we just _break and enter?”_

Oikawa laughs, waving his hand. “Only a little bit. C’mon, the records should be kept behind the counter.”

Hinata hurries to keep up with his strides, heart pounding in his chest. A multitude of worries begin to surface— _what if they get caught_ being at the top. He holds his tongue, not voicing them only because he’s a detective and Oikawa is a criminal, and between the two of them there _has_ to be enough knowledge not to be found out. Still, the unethical search and seizure of private medical records sets off every alarm bell in Hinata’s brain, so much so that he can hardly keep his eyes from darting to the far corners of the room for fear someone is watching.

Oikawa thumbs through filing cabinets filled with records, flipping through the dozens of _Hondas_ that have made their way through the clinic. Eventually, he stops, pulling out one file, gloved hands removing it from the rest. His eyes scan the pages quicker than Hinata can follow, leaving him to simply stand in confusion as a smug smirk grows on Oikawa’s face.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs, removing two pages from the file.

Hinata swallows a protest, instead taking a step closer to try and parse the document. “What?”

Oikawa returns the rest of the file to the cabinet, closing the drawer. “Honda suffered from something called cat’s eye syndrome— see?” he says, holding out one of the stolen pages for Hinata to see. Several pictures greet him of Honda’s eyes, with pupils that leak into the iris to create a strange slit, not unlike a cat’s. “It’s genetic, and mostly harmless, but it explains a lot.”

Hinata wrinkles his nose. “Why does it matter that she had some kind of eye disorder?” he asks as Oikawa folds the paper and tucks them into his pocket. 

At that, Oikawa grins, delight written across his face, all the way to his half closed eyes. “It means that they were deformed enough that the killer didn’t want them. That’s why he decided to give them back.”

Hinata’s jaw falls open. “You think he’s— the Chimera Killer is collecting these body parts?”

“Only the ones he wants. The ones that are useful to him,” Oikawa explains. He takes a step forward, brushing against Hinata’s arm as he moves past him. “We should get going— we got what we came here for.”

A different kind of shiver runs through Hinata. He nods, somewhat dazed, and follows once more, watching with a strange kind of awe as Oikawa resets the alarm and locks the door once more.

It’s as they’re waiting for the elevator that it happens— a shrill chime telltale of a phone’s ringer fills the otherwise silence of the hall, making Hinata jump and Oikawa roll his eyes. 

“Sorry, I need to take this,” he says, pulling a sleek phone from his pocket. “Hello?” Hinata watches Oikawa’s face cloud over, suddenly seriously, eyes darkening. “You found him?” he says, followed by another long pause. “What do you mean, he isn’t talking? Who was questioning him… Why the hell was Kindaichi doing it— he wouldn’t be able to get the truth out of a child, he’s practically one himself… No, I’m with Hinata… Fuck, are none of _you_ able to do it? No, don’t answer that, I’ll be there in fifteen. We don’t want to screw this up… yeah, don’t sweat it, Matsukawa, I’ll give Kindaichi a piece of my mind later.”

With that, he hangs up, visibly frustrated, arms crossed. The elevator doors open, and he wordlessly steps in, beckoning Hinata to follow.

“My other job is calling _specifically_ when I told them not to,” Oikawa explains, biting back his words. He takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. “I’d like to continue discussing the case, but I’m needed right now, so you’re tagging along.”

“Tagging along?” Hinata asks. The elevator opens once more, letting them out into the parking garage. Oikawa continues walking to his car, Hinata following behind. “To where?”

“Headquarters,” Oikawa answers, already unlocking the doors. They both slip inside, Oikawa starting the engine before they even buckle up their seatbelts. “There’s been someone taking goods and trying to sell them at a lower price— a rat, of sorts. One of my squads found him, but aren’t getting much out of him. It’s been a pain in everyone’s neck for weeks now, and it’s better that I do this right then have someone else botch it and make this an even bigger mess.”

Hinata swallows thickly, pulling Oikawa’s jacket closer around his shoulders. “Do… do _what_ right?”

Oikawa cracks a small smile, all at Hinata’s expense. “Interrogate him. You’re welcome to watch, but it won’t be pretty.”

Hinata pales, quickly shaking his head. “I’ll pass.”

“Pity, I wanted to see how strong your stomach is,” Oikawa says. When Hinata stays silent, he shoots him another smile, softer, gently knocking his hand against Hinata’s. “That’s a joke, by the way. You can wait in my office.”

“Right,” Hinata mumbles, looking down at his shoes, the rain growing louder all around.

They arrive at headquarters in record time, no doubt due to Oikawa’s speeding. Oikawa doesn’t bother shutting off the engine, stepping out of the car and throwing the keys to a waiting man in black, gesturing for Hinata to follow him inside. Hinata watches with shock as people make way, growing slightly quieter as Oikawa passes on his way indoors.

Waiting in the lobby is Iwaizumi, accompanied by two other figures clad in similar black suits, wearing long jackets like the one Hinata has slung his shoulders. One man has dark hair, curled at the edges, with a scar on his lip and a look of apathy spoiled by the faint scowl on his lips. The man beside him, just as tall, slouches ever so slightly, pink hair standing out against his black attire, still smirking despite the tense attitude around him. Hinata catches Iwaizumi’s eye, noting the look of surprise as they approach.

“You brought him?” Iwaizumi asks, nodding to Hinata.

“Didn’t have time to take him back home,” Oikawa answers.

“Oh, is this the famous Hinata?” the pink haired man says, out stretching a hand. “It’s a pleasure—”

“Not now, Hanamaki,” Oikawa snaps. He rolls up the sleeves to his white dress shirt, clicking his tongue absentmindedly. Hinata finds himself unable to stop staring. “Where is the rat being kept?”

“He’s chained in solitary,” the dark haired one answers. “Kindaichi left when I called, so he’s been alone for roughly a quarter of an hour.”

Oikawa scoffs, biting on his thumb. With a deft jerk of his chin, he yanks off his glove, the other being removed in a similar fashion. “Tell him to wait by my office in an hour.” Suddenly, he turns, facing Hinata as his air of anger simmers. Reaching out with a bare hand, he grabs Hinata’s hand, placing the leather gloves in his hold and curling his fingers over them. “Take these. I haven’t ruined them yet, and don’t plan on doing so now.”

Hinata nods wordlessly, Oikawa looking him up and down with a weighty gaze before turning back to his men. “Hanamaki, Matsukawa, watch over Hinata for me. Iwaizumi, you’re coming with me. Get someone to bring me my tools and meet me in the rat’s cell. I don’t want this to take anymore than an hour.”

“Yessir,” Matsukawa drawls, Iwaizumi and Oikawa already breaking away to head towards the back of the lobby. 

Abruptly, Oikawa stops, turning on his heel to stare at the two men left with Hinata, eyes as dark as Hinata has ever seen them, a smile plastered on his face coated with malice. “Oh, and Hanamaki, Matsukawa?” he calls out, flashing his teeth. “If you mess with him, you’ll be next.”

With that, he leaves, disappearing behind a closed oak door into the depths of the organization Hinata doesn’t get to see. With no amount of relief, Hinata exhales, ears burning uncontrollably as his mind’s eye replays the image of Oikawa’s biceps flexing as he pushes up his sleeves, his mouth’s curve as he pulls off his own gloves. 

_Holy shit,_ Hinata thinks, stomach squirming. _He’s scarily hot when he’s mad._

“Well well well, who would’ve thought the boss would leave us alone with you?” 

Hinata jumps, whipping around to face the two men. Hanamaki snickers, holding out his hand. “Hanamaki Takahiro. That’s Matsukawa Issei. We work with Oikawa, and are tasked with the wonderfully cushy job of babysitting you while he gets to work,” he says. Hinata shuffles Oikawa’s gloves into his other hand, shaking Hanamaki’s with the hope that he doesn’t notice him shaking.

“Nice to meet you,” Hinata says, unsure what else to say. Luckily, neither man seems to care about his awkward response, already taking the familiar path towards Oikawa’s office.

“Jeez, I can’t believe he brought you here in the middle of this,” Hanamaki says, blowing a sigh upwards as they step into the elevator. 

“Can't believe he let _us_ stay with you,” Matsukawa says. Hinata seizes up noticeably, but Matsukawa is quick to explain it away. “He’s _awfully_ protective of you, you know.”

“W-what?” Hinata asks, stomach dropping.

“Yeah, I was sure he wasn’t _ever_ going to let us meet you,” Hanamaki says. “That, and the little defense force he has stationed at your apartment. You know, you should really move. There’s, like, nothing in that area of town.”

Hinata blinks, taken aback. “That— it’s the contract. I— he’s somewhat responsible for my life.”

 _“Hardly,”_ Matsukawa hums. “But keep telling yourself that.”

He slips a key from his pocket and unlocks the door branded with Oikawa’s name, switching on the lights as they enter. The elegant interior seems different without Oikawa’s presence, caught in a strange kind of stasis that Hinata can’t quite place. Hanamaki immediately crashes onto one of the chairs set out by the large windows, rubbing his temples as Matsukawa shuts the door behind him.

 _“Man,_ it’s good to know that got handled,” he sighs, stretching out his arms. “We should celebrate tonight.”

Matsukawa hums in agreement, standing in front of him, hands shoved into his pockets. _“We_ could. Oikawa might need some coaxing before he goes anywhere. Seems uptight.”

Hanamaki shrugs. “Well, we celebrate, us four, and if Oikawa is uptight who cares. We’ll _celebrate_ later tonight by ourselves either way.” He smirks up at Matsukawa, spreading his legs ever so slightly.

Matsukawa snickers. “We would be _celebrating_ right now if I had it my way.”

Hinata, still lingering by the door, clears his throat, trying not to blush at the insinuations thrown so casually between the two. They turn their gaze towards him, sporting twin smiles as if they expected this reaction. 

“Say, Hinata,” Hanamaki says, schooling his face ever so slightly. “What’d you have to do for Oikawa to give you his coat?”

Hinata looks down at the coat he wears, pulling it a little tighter around his shoulders. It’s oddly comforting amidst the chaos of the mafia’s headquarters, not to mention warm in a way he seems to crave.

“I forgot to grab a jacket,” Hinata explains simply, pulling up a chair to sit in. The soft padding lets him sink in slightly, far more comfortable than anything he’s used to. “He gave me this to keep dry.”

Matsukawa whistles, shaking his head. “That’s bold.”

“Typical, for him,” Hanamaki adds. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hinata asks, slightly dizzy from following the pair’s fast paced banter.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki share a look, communicating something silently with raised brows and subtle smiles. Eventually, Matsukawa turns to Hinata, contemplating his words for a moment before he speaks.

“That black coat isn’t just a coat for us,” Matsukawa tells him, sitting opposite Hanamaki. “The people who wear them in the organization hold a certain amount of power. It’s a status symbol of sorts, and Oikawa walking you in here with _his_ coat around _your_ shoulders is something in of itself.”

“It’s pretty serious, if you ask me,” Hanamaki chimes in. “It’s no secret that he’s taken an interest in you.”

Hinata’s blood runs cold, eyes widening as he sinks further into the coat. “W-what?”

“Yeah,” Hanamaki says. “You’re definitely his type.”

“I— I’m— _what—”_ Hinata stammers, unsure what else to say. Following their logic is hard enough, but the insinuation that Oikawa actually _likes_ him is strange, even having heard him admit it over dinner. Somehow, hearing it from two of his wisecracking subordinates makes it clear that Oikawa’s interest isn’t just a farce.

“How do you even know this?” Hinata asks, furrowing his brow. 

“We've only known him for, what, the better part of a decade?” Hanamaki says. “Even then, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. You get good at understanding his motives, though.”

“I think Iwaizumi is the only one who can do that, but they’ve known each other since their childhood,” Matsukawa adds.

Hinata perks up, sitting up straighter as he tilts his head. “They were childhood friends?” he asks, remembering Iwaizumi’s gruff exterior, trying to parse it next to Oikawa’s flamboyant personality.

Matsukawa hums. “Something like that. The Iwaizumi’s have been a mafia family for generations, but the grapevine says Oikawa wasn’t born into it— he grinded to gain the influence he has now.”

“So he really is high up,” Hinata muses. “Sorry, I don’t have the best grasp on your… hierarchy.”

Hanamaki perks up, flashing a smile. “Really? Here, lemme explain— it’s pretty simple, actually.”

He reaches into his pocket, grabbing a pen and a pad of paper, writing a name at the top of the page. “At the top is the Boss. He’s getting older, and mainly oversees the path the organization should be taking with his experience. Because of his age, all of the work is delegated between five executives.”

Hanamaki writes down Oikawa’s name underneath the boss’. “Oikawa is second in the chain of command, basically. T and I— torture and investigation— is the main focus for him and his delegates. There's some other executives in charge of shipments, guerrilla force, etc— guys like the Miyas and Ushijima. Technically, they have the same amount of power, but Oikawa’s position gives him more sway than the others.”

“So what do you do?” Hinata asks.

“We’re sub-executives. Me, Makki, and Iwaizumi manage his plans and carry out orders, basically. We each command smaller groups, but answer to Oikawa in the grand scheme of things,” Matsukawa tells him. “There’s a lot more people underneath us, but from there it gets a little murky.”

“And people like Iwaizumi— his whole _family_ is involved?” Hinata asks, bewildered. It’s not unheard of, but is still surreal for someone like him.

“Yep. It was only natural for him to get in the position he is now— he’s been preparing for this line of work his entire life,” Hanamaki says.

Hinata pauses, tracing the diagram with his fingertip, pausing on the kanji of Oikawa’s name. He looks up, curiosity still pushing him forwards. “What about you two? How’d you get where you are?”

Matsukawa chuckles. “Right to it, huh? Not everyone would ask something like that,” he says. “My grandfather was a friend of the boss. He worked in the mafia his whole life. The majority of my family didn’t have jobs within the organization— he wanted my parents to stay safe— but I spent a lot of my childhood being babysat in this building while he smoked and counted money. I ended up learning a lot of tricks from him. When he passed away, I was in my teens, and got offered a job. I figured, hey, I’ve got a knack for it, why not? Make old pops proud, wherever he is now.”

Hinata blinks, surprised. “Huh,” he says, struck by the oddity of Matsukawa’s story. He looks over at Hanamaki, caught smiling fondly at Matsukawa. “What about you?”

Hanamaki blinks. “Hm, me? I was a little shit in a gang that ended up being more trouble than it was worth. When we ended up stepping on the mafia’s toes, I was the only one smart enough to get away with the skin on my back. I guess they thought that was good enough to offer me a spot doing odd jobs, so I worked my way up from there.” He looks over to Matsukawa, flashing a bright grin. “That’s how we met: working a job together. You remember that?”

“You won’t let me forget,” Matsukawa shoots back. “Anyways, now you’re here too.”

Hinata bristles. “I— technically the contract says—”

“The contract says one thing, that coat says another,” Hanamaki laughs. “But don’t worry— you won’t answer to anyone but Oikawa if he can help it.”

“So, what’s your story? How’d _you_ get here?” Matsukawa asks.

Hinata tenses further, hiding in the heavy fabric of Oikawa’s coat as the pair’s gaze grows stronger. He avoids their eyes, staring intensely at the ground as he swallows harshly. “I— I wanted to make a difference. That’s why I joined the force.”

“Aw, is that it? I thought it’d be, y’know, something _exciting_ since Oikawa is so invested in you,” Hanamaki chides. “Something like, _my whole family was murdered by bandits at sea_ _._ The only thing _more_ boring than that was if you said your dad was a cop.”

Hinata’s hands clench the fabric of Oikawa’s coat, twisting it as he struggles to keep himself calm. Sweat begins to slick his palms, heart pounding in his ears. “Yeah… terrible.”

Matsukawa cocks his head. “Was he?” he asks. Hinata nods, not trusting his voice, not when his throat has begun to swell under the pressure of admitting the truth, of facing it after all these years. 

Hanamaki sighs. “Damn, double whammy. Well, humble beginnings make for great stories or whatever,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. Hinata sinks further away, wishing he could vanish into the fabric and escape prying eyes. The faintest sound of scratching begins to crawl up his spine, dull _thuds_ audible under the hardwood floors of Oikawa’s office, scraping as the secret underneath them tries to claw its way out.

Matsukawa smirks. “Wanted to follow daddy dearest’s footsteps?” he teases, leaning forwards. The _creak_ of old wood and the stench of rot grows, and grows, and grows, until—

 _“NO!”_ Hinata shouts, slamming his fist onto the arm of the chair, the upholstery groaning under his force. The room goes silent, no sound of scratching to be heard, only the steady _thump_ of his pulse reminding him he’s still alive. Hanamaki and Matsukawa stare at him, bewildered, their eyes wide and mouths agape, caught in a genuine moment of surprise for the first time since they’ve met. Already he can feel the dull _throb_ of pain in his fist, a reminder of the control that briefly left him.

“H-Hinata—” Hanamaki starts, but is cut off as Hinata sinks lower into the chair, shame burning the backs of his ears.

“No,” he repeats, quieter this time. “That’s not why I joined the force.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa stay silent, sharing a look of not only surprise, but apprehension. Caught off kilter, Hanamaki coughs, attempting to say something, only to stop at the sound of the door beginning to open. 

Hinata quickly looks over, watching as Oikawa walks in, breathing a heavy sigh as he shuts the door behind him. His eyes instantly track towards Hinata, narrowing with suspicion. Before he can speak, Hinata stands, shrugging the coat from his shoulder, closing the space between them and shoving the fabric into his arms. 

“Let’s go,” he mumbles, pushing past Oikawa to head into the hall. 

Oikawa’s attention shifts to Matsukawa and Hanamaki, the last of his anger bubbling up as the two quickly stand. “What the hell did you two do?” he hisses, voice hushed so Hinata doesn’t overhear. 

“Nothing, I swear,” Matsukawa says slowly. 

“We’re innocent here,” Hanamaki says, raising his hands. “We just asked some questions, made conversion, teased a bit.”

“How were we supposed to know he has daddy issues?” Matsukawa says with a shrug. 

At that, Oikawa perks up, anger fading into an emotion much harder to read. “You’ll tell me about this later. For now, deal with Kindaichi. I’ve got too much on my plate to deal with someone who can’t even do his job.”

“Yessir,” Matsukawa says. He elbows Hanamaki’s ribs, the two ducking their heads in a small bow. 

“Apologies for stepping out of line,” Hanamaki echoes. 

Oikawa turns on his heel, heading towards the door. “Well, maybe your meddling has turned out to be of use.”

With that, he shuts the door to his office behind him, approaching Hinata from behind. He offers him a gentle smile, so unlike the broken, half crazed one he wore only an hour earlier. Hands now clean, he leads Hinata back to the elevator, silent as they make their way down to the lobby. Tension rests in the air between them, not burning but simply _uncomfortable,_ Hinata’s unseated trauma rising back up to gnaw at his consciousness and distract him from what’s at hand. 

They step out into the lobby, pausing as the doors close behind them. “Unfortunately, I can’t continue following this lead today. This mess still needs sorting,” Oikawa explains, sighing. “But I’ll take you back home— it’s the least I can do for wasting your time.”

Hinata nods mutely, thankful for the saving grace that is not having to pretend for the rest of the night. A shudder runs through him at the thought of being alone, and for a moment, he _almost_ reaches out to grab Oikawa’s sleeve in an effort to ask him not to go. Keen eyes notice whatever interior struggle resides within him, and Oikawa frowns. 

“They didn’t push you, did they? Matsukawa and Hanamaki, I mean,” Oikawa asks. 

“N-no,” Hinata lies, without thinking. “Th-they didn’t say anything wrong, I just panicked.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue, unfurling his coat. “Either way, you’re upset, and they’re the cause whether you willingly admit it or not,” he tells him. In one smooth motion, he places the coat back onto Hinata’s shoulders, the weight relaxing him, if only slightly. “Keep this until we meet again. You’ll catch a cold if you don’t.”

Hinata stops in his tracks, the heavy fabric engulfing him once more. “Wh-what? What about you?”

Oikawa hums, smiling slightly. “I have others. And it suits you.”

Unsure how to respond, Hinata simply follows him as Oikawa walks towards the front door, where his car waits. The eyes of people coming and going from the building follow them silently as Oikawa opens the passenger side door, letting Hinata sit down before walking around to the driver’s side. The engine hums quiet beneath them as they drive away, into the maze of city streets. 

The weight of the day’s stresses and curiosities still rests on Hinata’s mind, one in particular rising to his mind as he sits nestled in the fabric of Oikawa’s coat.

“Those guys… they said something about the coat— that it was, um, important to you,” Hinata says, breaking the silence between them, ears burning, stomach fluttering with nerves. “To the mafia. They thought it was a big deal you gave me yours.”

Hinata watches as Oikawa’s eyes widen with surprise before quickly being schooled back to a cool neutral, fingers flexing against the steering wheel. “They aren’t wrong,” he tells him. “Some people view it as a symbol of status.”

Hinata looks down at the waves of black fabric covering his slender frame, unable to stare at Oikawa any longer. “Do… do you?” he asks, stealing glances from the corner of his eye.

Oikawa hums, turning his head as they come to a stop. His lips are parted, tilted into the barest hint of a smile. “Perhaps. Maybe I just didn’t want a pretty thing like you to freeze to death.”

Hinata begins to stammer, a flash of heat coursing through his body as Oikawa unlocks the doors. “Wh-what—”

“We’re here,” Oikawa tells him. “Be careful, okay?”

Hinata shakes himself out of the shock, careful with the long coat as he steps out of the car. “I will,” he says, convinced that he’ll die before he ruins Oikawa’s coat.

Oikawa grins, idling by as Hinata walks into his apartment building. As he opens the door, Hinata turns, pausing before sending Oikawa a small wave. Through the tinted glass of his windows, Oikawa waves back. 

Out of sight, Oikawa shakes his head, letting his eyes fall shut. _Naive,_ he muses. _He doesn’t think I was talking about him._

_—_

Hinata wears the coat more often then he’d like to admit. They don’t see each other for a few days, Oikawa set to collect information himself while Hinata compiles the facts they’ve gathered so far. It’s a task he can complete in the comfort of his apartment, as drafty as it is as the late summer sun turns into longer and cooler nights, fall creeping in. Oikawa’s jacket is a welcome blanket, especially in an apartment as poorly insulated as his own. Hinata spends whole days wrapped up in it, sleeves rolled so that they don’t entirely cover his hands. He works well— whether or not the coat is to blame doesn’t change that. 

Hinata stares down at his handwritten notes, tapping his pen to his lips. They’re close to uncovering _something_ on the case, even if it’s just a clearer M.O. It’s more than what the police have accomplished in the half year, and Oikawa and Hinata have been together nearing a month at most. A little more, and they could find out what the _hell_ the killer is trying to accomplish— the first step to finding out who the hell the killer could be. 

A yawn pulls through Hinata’s chest, broken and drawn out. He drops his pen, rubbing his eyes as he looks towards the clock on his nightstand. It’s nearing the middle of the night— much later than he’d stay up usually. With one last look over his page, Hinata shuts the file, pushing away from his desk. He reluctantly lets the coat fall onto the back of the chair, heading towards his drawers to change into a set of pyjamas and get ready for sleep. The familiar motions break the concentrated quiet created while he worked, pulling on the strings of his consciousness as he dredges towards his bed, pausing before he vanishes beneath the covers. 

Oikawa’s coat stares back at him dauntingly, lining exposed to the flickering lamplight. Hinata takes a step forwards before shaking his head. _What am I doing?_ he thinks, stopping himself as a shiver runs down his spine. Like it or not, his room is cold, and the jacket is warm, secure. _It's just to keep warm,_ Hinata tells himself, reaching out and draping it around himself. _That's the point of having it right?_

He falls into bed, curling up underneath his blankets with the coat engulfing him completely. A deep breath in smells of Oikawa’s spiced cologne and metallic scent, muted, but all consuming. The added weight lulls Hinata to sleep before he even becomes drowsy, with a sense of comfort he can’t understand. _It’s just a jacket,_ he tells himself, but he can't help but imagine it’s Oikawa, lying beside him, curled around his back. 

He falls asleep before he can berate himself for the thought, with the image of Oikawa’s sly smile on his mind, holding his coat as close as he can. 


	4. Victim (Part I).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IF YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT UPDATES, READ THE END NOTE! ALL COMMENTS ASKING ABOUT UPDATES WILL BE DELETED!**
> 
> hey guys!!! im honestly so happy with the reception that this fic has been getting!! i really love hearing all your guys' theories on hinatas backstory (a few of you have actually come really close!) this is one of those chapters where that graphic content comes into play, so take caution in reading!  
> \- mooks
> 
> —
> 
> HEY GUYS ITS HERE MAF AU OH MAN ITS GETTING GOOD!!! put this in your pan and let it sizzle...........  
> -kj

_Knock-knock-knock-knock._

Hinata rolls over in bed, flattening his palms against his ears in a last ditch attempt to fall back asleep and ignore the ruckus from other tenants. He inhales deeply, warm beneath the covers, letting himself relax further into his mattress. 

_Knock-knock-knock._ Louder this time, and most definitely at his door. 

Hinata groans, kicking off his bed sheets as he clammers out of bed, shivering in the fresh morning air. He’s still cloaked in Oikawa’s jacket, heavy and warm enough to lessen the shock as he pads towards the source of the noise— his front door. Ready to send off whatever visitor there may be, he unbolts the deadlock, rubbing his eyes as he opens the door to reveal a well dressed, smiling Oikawa, thermos in hand. 

“Yahoo Hina-chan, I have something to show you,” Oikawa chimes. Hinata blinks slowly, unanswering. Oikawa takes his time looking him up and down, smile growing as he cocks his head. “My my, did you just wake up? It looks like you just rolled out of bed… wearing my coat, no less. Did you sleep all cuddled with it?”

"Mhm," Hinata hums in assent, nodding dumbly as he backs up and makes his way into the kitchen, missing Oikawa’s surprised expression. No matter how much of a morning person he is, a night spent awake until the earliest hours of the morning tends to leave him ready for a full night’s rest. One glance at the stove top clock tells him it’s nearing ten— late for him, but still morning. In need of caffeine and too tired to notice Oikawa closing the front door and removing his shoes, Hinata prepares a kettle, ready to make green tea. 

Oikawa crosses the threshold of Hinata’s apartment in seconds, eyes raking over his messy kitchen and the pile of papers on his coffee table before settling on Hinata himself. The coat covers Hinata’s modest choice of pyjamas, boxers and a shirt, the sleeves draping over his hands so that they vanish within the fabric. With the kettle boiling, he sets off on the monotonous task of lighting the stove, the gas flickering a few times before finally catching. Slowly, as not to startle him, Oikawa creeps closer, looming over his shoulder from behind, chest pressed to Hinata’s back as he leans down to bring his mouth closer to his ear. 

“Mm, what’s for breakfast?” he murmurs, inclining his chin a touch closer. 

Hinata gets a whiff of his cologne, letting his eyes fall shut before he turns his head, beginning to answer only to stop dead in his tracks as his eyes open, revealing Oikawa’s face not an inch from his own. Frozen in place, Hinata’s eyes widen, the last bits of sleepish haze fading from his mind, and as the kettle begins to whistle, he jumps back, ears and cheeks burning red. 

“O-Oikawa!” he shouts, pulling the coat closer around him only to remember it’s _Oikawa’s coat, and he just admitted to sleeping in it._ Oikawa watches in amusement as Hinata sputters, eyes darting from side to side, mind replaying the soft brush of warm air on his neck and the rich vibrations of Oikawa’s voice humming through him—

“What?” Oikawa asks, cocking his head in mock innocence. 

“W-why are you in my apartment!?” Hinata exclaims. Embarrassment gets the better of him, and before Oikawa can answer, he begins to apologize. “I— I’m cold, I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking, I need to—“

Oikawa waves his hand, walking past Hinata to the whirring kettle. “You didn’t close the door on me, so I invited myself in,” he explains, an air of nonchalance so stark to Hinata’s frazzled state. He looks back to Hinata, eyes lidded as he smirks. “And I assure you, nothing pleases me more than to see you making such good use of my coat.”

Something curls in the pit of Hinata’s stomach that he refuses to acknowledge, something that creeps towards his navel more than he’d like to admit. Forcing himself not to dwell on the low tones of Oikawa’s confession any longer for fear his body may betray him, he throws open the fridge and grabs a half full cartoon of eggs. 

“I—I’m making eggs,” he announces, trying to keep his voice strong while avoiding Oikawa’s gaze. It seems to follow his every movement, raking up and down his body without a hint of shame. _At least,_ Hinata tells himself, _he makes himself useful by steeping the tea._

“Wonderful, we can talk after breakfast,” Oikawa says. He opens two cabinets in an attempt to find Hinata’s mugs, pouring one for himself and abandoning whatever was held in the thermos he brought along. As Hinata stirs the eggs, Oikawa pours the tea into each cup, breaking the painfully awkward silence with humming gentle on the ears. Without even meaning to, Hinata finds himself with a double serving of his usual breakfast, preparing to share a meal with another human being in his own home for the first time in much too long. 

It’s strange how comforting another person’s presence is. Hinata would never admit to trusting Oikawa, but knowing the sounds of footsteps on the wood floor and the _clink_ of mugs together comes from a living human being takes the edge off of Hinata’s usual paranoia. He even finds himself _relaxing,_ cozy in Oikawa’s coat, unable to deny how much he enjoys wearing the oversized garment, even while its owner is present. The sizzle of eggs in a pan and the smell of green tea all distract him from how absurd of a scenario this is, and how absurd it is that he hasn’t thrown Oikawa back out the front door. 

Hinata slips the eggs onto each plate, leaning over Oikawa ever so slightly. As they lean against the counter, utensils in hand, Oikawa casts him a crooked smile. 

“Thanks for the food,” he says, taking a bite. “I hardly ever eat breakfast— I’m starved.”

Hinata furrows his brow, pausing with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean you don’t eat breakfast? Aren’t you hungry?”

Oikawa shrugs, taking another bite. “I never have the time. That, and I’m not the best cook,” he says, somewhat bashfully. “Usually, it’s just coffee.”

“You can’t cook? How can you not cook?” Hinata exclaims. _Is this really the one thing you’re bad at?_ he stops himself from saying.

“But look, I have my Hina-chan to cook for me!” Oikawa chides. “Say, in exchange for my clothes that you seem to love sleeping in, why don’t you cook for me more often?”

Hinata, halfway through finishing his tea, sputters, choking down the drink before he spews it across the counter. He had almost forgotten about his predicament, still clothed in Oikawa’s coat, the sleeves falling over his hands. Taking it off and exposing his boxers would be worse than leaving it on, and he’s not sure if he’s ready for Oikawa to see him like that.

“Why are you here again?” Hinata squeaks, the jab fueled less by malice and more by the need to get Oikawa _out of his kitchen._

“Oh, that,” Oikawa hums contemplatively as he sips his tea. “Let's finish eating before we discuss it. You might lose your appetite. We might as well wait for you to shower if we’re waiting.”

Hinata’s stomach tightens, and suddenly, he doesn’t feel like eating anymore. 

—

Hinata walks out of the shower, toweling off his still dripping hair as he pads barefoot into the kitchen. Oikawa’s coat lies over the back of the chair, and Hinata, now clad in well worn jeans and a fresh shirt, pointedly does _not_ reach for it. Oikawa looks over from the sink, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and openly stares, eyes wandering up and down without haste. Hinata can’t shy away from his gaze, the sensation of being eaten alive following him as he takes his place. 

“So, what’d you figure out?” Hinata asks, not quite meeting Oikawa’s eyes. 

Oikawa drums his fingertips on the counter. “Well, I put together a list of what body parts the killer still has from the girls,” he says. “He’s been discarding doubles. Now, he's only got a single pair of eyes, nails, teeth. With every dump of body parts the police find, he’s selecting the finest of the bunch and casting aside the rest.”

Hinata’s stomach churns. “W-what does that mean?”

“A few things. He’s still keeping large quantities of skin from the things he discards, and we’ve yet to find a head of any girl.” Oikawa stands up straight, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not satisfied just yet, and is going to kill again soon and dump another pile of excess for the public to find. He’ll be getting antsy about now— it’s just a matter of time.”

“You mean he’s gonna kill again?” Hinata says, voice rising in pitch. “We gotta do something— if someone else is taken—“

“He’s probably already kidnapped someone,” Oikawa says, voice calm against Hinata’s frantic tone. “Think about it. All the others were missing weeks before their bodies turned up.”

“That doesn’t mean we can just sit here and _wait,”_ Hinata huffs. “Can’t we try and find potential victims from missing persons? He doesn’t have a type, but there must be _something_ in common we can see.”

Oikawa raises a brow, studying Hinata’s frustration with careful eyes. “What for?”

“To warn the families, get protection on the houses so the killer doesn't break in and leave more body parts, or catch him if he does.” Hinata can feel himself growing twitchy, nails scratching against his clothed thighs.

Oikawa purses his lips. “He won’t go near the homes if they’re protected— he’s smarter than that. But doing that might force his hand.” He pushes himself off of the counter, reaching into his pocket to check the time on his phone. It’s a strange sight, with the broken watch on his wrist staring back at him. “How soon can I get a list of specific missing girls in the area by?”

Hinata bites his lip. “If I go to the station today… Daichi should give me all of their files. We’d have to sort through them ourselves.”

“Good, I don’t want anyone other than you doing it.” 

Hinata forces down a flutter of— pride? Satisfaction? He can’t be sure. The feeling is strange and unwelcome, even as it warms his stomach and lifts the damp dredges of anxiety from his bones. Hinata understands what Oikawa means when he says he is the only one. It’s an admission of paranoia from a control freak neck deep in the mafia. To Oikawa, Hinata is a risk already calculated. Trust in him is trust in himself. And yet, the same part of Hinata that relishes in the warmth of Oikawa’s jacket wants, more than anything, to bask in his praise.

“I— I’ll get them now,” Hinata tells him, looking away to find his keys. “Do you want to come with, or…”

He pulls onto his shoes and turns to see Oikawa looking around his kitchen, smiling far too kindly. “Why, thank you for asking, Hina-chan,” he says, focus zeroing in on Hinata. “But I’m sure I’d create a scene, and this needs to be done fast. I’ll stay here and eagerly await your return.”

Hinata stops, hand hovering over Oikawa’s jacket. “What?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

Oikawa waves his hand, dismissing Hinata’s confusion. “Go on, quick. You won’t miss me too much. I can do the dishes.”

Hinata wants to argue, wants to force Oikawa out of his home and keep it a secret from his already prying eyes. But Oikawa is right— every second they waste talking pushes the families towards danger, and Hinata would be selfish to push anymore. With a huff, he turns to make for the front door, only to be stopped when heavy fabric falls over his shoulders. Hands run down each arm as Oikawa leans down to bring his lips to Hinata’s ear, each exhale raising the hair on the back of Hinata’s neck. 

“You almost forgot something,” he says, all of his former innocence gone in favour of a taunting lilt. “Don’t catch a cold.”

He releases Hinata and takes a step back without another word. In a moment of embarrassment, Hinata jerks away, rushing to the door only to stop before throwing it open. Casting a look over his shoulder, half apologetic, half worried, Hinata meets Oikawa eyes. 

“Don’t. Touch. _Anything,”_ he warns, watching as Oikawa’s eyes gleam.

“Of course, Hina-chan.” Oikawa smiles, holding his hands behind his back. “What kind of person do you take me for?”

—

The door locks with a firm _click,_ and Oikawa bursts into a grin. He expected to get a look at Hinata’s apartment today, but not like this. Not alone, without Hinata watching over his shoulder. Little pieces of Hinata Oikawa hasn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting lay hidden in every crack in the floorboards, every nook in the shoebox apartment Hinata calls home. Excitement rushes through him as he immediately begins to snoop.

The kitchen he stands beside is the perfect place to start. Hinata’s bowls have all seen much better days, each with chips and scratches that stand out against the simple white porcelain. The pantry is stocked with non-perishables, spices, and a few different kinds of rice. Oikawa picks up one of the containers of a red powder, expecting to find a label, only to see clear glass. With a huff, Oikawa puts it away, confused how Hinata manages to tell what it is. The refrigerator is glaringly empty, with only eggs and a carton of milk staring back at him. Unsurprisingly, Oikawa finds no liquor and no beer, proving once again Hinata’s aversion to alcohol. The milk, at least, isn’t out of date. Oikawa is sure his own at home might be.

Hinata’s attached living area is half the size of his already tiny kitchen. It sports a couch that sits low to the floor and a small, out of date TV that rests atop a cabinet filled to the brim with DVDs and books. Oikawa kneels down in front of it and inspects the titles. Children's anime takes up a large portion of the shelf, with a surprising lack of buddy-cop comedies for a police officer. Oikawa would’ve thought Hinata would have a few more action flicks, but all that he’s met with is _Pacific Rim_ and a few classics. He rifles through them for a few more minutes before casting a look around the rest of the room. The single window in the entire space is nearly blocked by a fern, leaves still dewy with water. Oikawa smiles— it's obviously well cared for, if the full green leaves mean anything. He picks up a stray pillow from the ground as he stands, shaped like a Bulbasaur. It stares up at him with embroidered eyes, perfectly plush and soft in his hands. Oikawa sets it down onto the couch and moves on.

With nothing else noteworthy in Hinata’s main room, Oikawa moves on. Hinata’s bedroom door is already ajar, inviting him forth. Hinata could hardly have made it easier for Oikawa to walk right in and take in the sights. His bed, unmade, sports cotton sheets. His walls are a nonthreatening eggshell. Oikawa sighs— he doesn’t doubt Hinata’s landlord forbids him from painting it a more appealing shade. 

Beyond the mess of sheets, Hinata’s bed is also home to a few more stuffed animals. Oikawa’s smile only grows— _cute,_ he thinks, while checking the space between the headboard and the wall. For all of his fiery personality, Hinata’s tastes are surprisingly soft. His nervous demeanor already spoke to an attitude unlike the rest of the police Oikawa has had the misfortune of interacting with. Still, he expected something… more. An answer to a few of the mysteries rather than another question to ask himself, late at night when he can’t sleep. Who is Hinata Shouyou, really?

Oikawa hopes to find the answer in his underwear drawer. Part of it is justified by evidence— it's a perfect place to hide money, passports, jewelry and the like. Oikawa has found more than one gun hidden among the knickers of people he was sent to kill in his youth. The larger part, though, is sick curiosity. Oikawa can hardly suppress the grin on his face as he pulls open the top drawer to reveal—

Underwear. Unsurprisingly.

Hinata seems to prefer briefs over boxers, with pairs in a multitude of colours and patterns. Oikawa pushes them to the side, digging deeper until his fingers find cardboard instead of cotton. He tucks the underwear out of the way completely to reveal a shoebox, lid still intact. Oikawa makes a bet of what he might find— a few porn magazines, some extra change, maybe an important document or two— and lifts the lid, tossing it to the ground.

Oikawa has never been more happy to be proven wrong. Staring back up at him are a neat assortment of sex toys— more, possibly, than he himself owns. He bites his lip, delicately lifting up one dildo to examine it. It’s surprisingly large, amorphous and coloured hot pink. There’s another one underneath it, roughly the same size, though only half of it seems to be insertable. The other half is taken up with controls: buttons labeled _vibrations_ and _thrust._ Oikawa takes it into his hand and clicks _on,_ feeling a pleasant buzz against his palms.

“My my, Shouyou,” he whispers to himself, unable to hold back his grin. “What else do you have in here?”

The answer: several metal cock rings, including one that vibrates; an egg shaped bullet vibe with a remote control; a bottle of lube, half empty, unflavoured. _Bottom,_ Oikawa thinks to himself. _Submissive. Maybe a masochist. Matsukawa said he had daddy issues. Daddy kink? Brat?_ There are no restraints in the box, no lingerie, no obvious signs of a partner. _Single. By choice? Or by design?_

Oikawa rearranges the drawer to the way it was before, making sure to cover the box with underwear once more. The closet, perhaps, holds the answers he seeks. He crosses the room in two strides and throws open the doors to reveal a wardrobe of well worn business casual attire. There’s hardly enough in Oikawa’s opinion, but what’s there is of nice quality. Tucked beside the shoes that line the floor is a metal bat that Oikawa hardly thinks is used for baseball. It sports little wear, its handle not even taped up. He wonders why, out of all the things Hinata could choose to defend himself with, he chooses this. Sure, the average Japanese citizen hardly has access to what Oikawa does, but Hinata is a cop. Surely he has a single gun lying around in his apartment.

Surely he’s kept the gun Oikawa gave him _somewhere._

Oikawa almost turns to leave when his foot catches the side of a box. He catches himself before he can stumble, eyes drifting down to the inconspicuous brown crate. It’s fairy large, with brass latches held shut by a padlock. Oikawa kneels and takes it into his hand. It’s a simple keyhole, one that he could break with his hands behind his back. He fishes his lock pick out from his pocket and, within a minute, hears the telltale _click_ of the lock popping open.

Not many people keep their personal documents behind lock and key. Hinata is one of the few who does. Oikawa takes the passport from the top and flips through all of the unstamped pages. Hinata’s social insurance card falls from the pages, and Oikawa is quick to tuck it back in. The next document is his birth certificate. Oikawa is careful with the yellowing paper as he takes it into his hands and inspects the details. Hinata’s birthday matches the records he was able to find, along with his name. He looks down at the names of his parents— Takeshi and Ayame— and clicks his tongue in interest. Hinata _was_ adopted, but at what age, Oikawa has yet to find out. At the very least, he now knows that Hinata is his birth parents’ name. 

What lies underneath is _exactly_ what Oikawa has been searching for, since the very moment Hinata admitted he was adopted. Staring up at him is a thick stack of papers, with the title reading _CASE 1482: HINATA SHOUYOU._ Printed a few lines below are both the titles of an adoption agency and a separate child welfare group. Oikawa notes them both as he flips to the first page, where the actual certificate lies. The signatures of Hatori and Fuyuko Kimura are neat and clean on the copy of Hinata’s adoption certificate, dated a few weeks before his tenth birthday. Oikawa makes note of their names as well, before opening the stack of papers further.

He expects fine print, legal jargon he’s learned to sort through like a language of its own. He expects a fairly standard list of procedures and social worker numbers. He does not anticipate that, underneath the name of Hinata’s birth parents, would be a list of redacted names, each under the subheading _police contacts._ Nor does he expect to be met with page after page of black ink, blocking out every other paragraph and sometimes pages at a time of what should be a fairly routine adoption. Oikawa furrows his brow and holds it up to the light in search of the kanji underneath, only to find nothing. The entire document is redacted so heavily that Oikawa can hardly read it. All he can manage to piece together is that, somehow, an unknown police precinct became involved in Hinata’s case. 

There’s a second box underneath the stack of nearly unreadable documents, made of metal instead of leather covered wood. Oikawa goes to pull it out, only to curse in the face of a combination dial meeting him by the latches. He tries the first few things he can thing of— Hinata’s birthday, his adoption date— each with no avail. He just begins to go through the methodical work of cracking it open when he hears, through the paper thin walls, quick footfalls in his direction. He quickly returns everything to the way it once was, locking the box and closing Hinata’s closet as if he had never entered. With quiet footsteps, he pads back into Hinata’s living room, managing to collapse onto the couch seconds before Hinata throws open the door, panting, coat still draped over his shoulders.

“What took you so long?” Oikawa asks, crossing his legs lazily over the couch’s arm. The narrow eyed, pinched lipped look Hinata shoots him is almost enough to make him feel shame— _almost._ Hinata kicks the door closed behind him and drops two binders, each bursting at the seams, onto the coffee table. 

“They had to print copies of certain documents still,” Hinata says, collapsing onto the couch with no mind for Oikawa’s legs. “These are all of the girls who’ve gone missing in the past year.”

Oikawa grabs half of the stack and sets it onto the coffee table. “Pay attention to the photos. Look for girls with noticeable features, ones that are attractive, yes, but stand out from the rest. If they’re suspected to be taken by a family member, set it aside. We want girls who have gone without a trace, girls who are on the fringe, girls who are vulnerable. They'd be the easiest targets.”

Hinata nods, flipping through the files. Oikawa works at a pace much quicker than him, scanning and discarding the cases into a few piles. Anyone missing over a month is cast aside, anyone of interest is passed over to Oikawa for a second look. The smiling faces of girls frozen in a time before turmoil stare through the photos and up at Hinata. Their names begin to blend together— Fuyumi, Ami, Natsuki, Haruka, Sayaka, Miruko— on and on, until the photos could be anyone. The _victims_ could be anyone. The cashier at the grocery store down the street, the barista at the local coffee shop, a neighbour a few doors over. Each girl lives a life that could be cut short by a phantom with a grotesque eye. Probability cuts the chances that they were the ones taken, but the fact of the matter is any one of them could fall prey to a predator. 

Hinata stops on one file— Shinohara Moriko, a twenty-three year old student who was last seen two weeks prior. Her face doesn’t particularly stand out— while pretty, there isn't much notable about her appearance. But scribbled under her occupation is something of note, something that makes Hinata pause. 

“Take a look at this,” Hinata says, holding out the file for Oikawa. “She’s a part time _foot_ model. Y’know, for nails and shoes and stuff.”

Oikawa perks up, shuffling closer to look at the file in Hinata’s hands. “Well, would you look at that. Our killer hasn’t kept any feet yet, has he?”

“I… don’t think so?” Hinata furrows his brow, recalling the list of body parts they’ve recovered. “I think we have feet for every girl so far. So if you think he’s collecting body parts…”

“She’d be a good match. If we’re talking about feet, I guess,” Oikawa finished. He picks up another two files from his pile, laying them out on the table. “These are the only other girls that caught my eye. This one is fourteen, though— a little young, but since she matches the description it’d be good to send someone to her house just in case.”

Hinata ignores the way his stomach twists at the middle school portrait clipped to her file. “And the other?”

“Eighteen, frequent club goer with parents that live in the countryside. She's extremely attractive and would be easy to make disappear. Obviously someone managed, but whether or not that someone is our killer remains to be seen.” He pushes the other files to the side, leaving only Moriko’s case alongside the other two. “The killer took one of these girls, and my money is on Miss Moriko.”

Hinata sits back, looking away from the files to stare at Oikawa. “What makes you so sure?”

Humming, Oikawa lifts his chin. “If she is taken, it’ll contextualize the rest of the killings and confirm the theory that he’s collecting things. Who was she close to?”

Hinata opens back up her file, scanning through the notes. “She lives with her elderly grandparents. From what’s written here, it looks like she’s closer with them than her parents.”

Oikawa stands, making way for the front door. “Send police to watch the homes of the other two. You and I are staking out her grandparents’ place until our killer shows up.” 

“W-what? Do you have any idea how long that’ll take?” Hinata asks, sputtering as he struggles to gather up the files.

Oikawa shrugs. “If we stay longer than forty-eight hours, I’ll get Iwaizumi to switch off. The longest the killer kept a body was three weeks— most were only two. Moriko’s body should show up any time now.”

Hinata stares, mouth agape as Oikawa gathers his things. “I— Okay?”

Oikawa turns from where he stands at the doorway, one shoe on with the other dangling from his hand. “That was a lovely breakfast, Hina-chan. I’ll be back later this afternoon to pick you up. That should be enough time to talk to the police and get yourself ready, yes?”

Hinata stumbles for a moment, sighing at Oikawa’s unflinching smile. He doesn’t have much of a choice. 

“I’ll be ready,” Hinata tells him, sucking up whatever discomfort tries to nestle in his rib cage. There are much more important things at stake than his own emotions, lives at risk beyond his own. Hinata is no stranger to self sacrifice, and if catching a killer means confining himself with Oikawa for days on end, so be it. 

He's been trapped in far worse places than Oikawa’s close vicinity. 

—

Hinata is ready by the time Oikawa arrives at his front door once more. It’s three pm— the unit assigned to the Chimera Killer has been informed of their task, the police have been sent out to monitor the other houses, and Hinata has packed a duffle bag full of what he hopes are stake out essentials. A change of clothes, his wallet, an old pair of binoculars, a charger for his phone, and a well loved camping cooler filled with food are all stuffed inside, filling it to the point that the zipper barely closes. He dresses in a well worn knit sweater and a pair of comfy black sweats, hoping Oikawa will forgive his horrible fashion choices if only because they’ll be stuck in a car, hopefully unseen. Against his better judgment, he takes Oikawa’s jacket with him— for what reason, he can’t be sure. 

Oikawa has discarded his regular getup in favour of a long sleeved sweater vest, the v-neck dipping low on his collarbones. His usually sleek black sports car has been changed out for an unassuming grey car any suburban family would be lucky to have. Hinata tries not to think too hard on where it came from, and succeeds only because there are more pressing matters at hand. 

It’s a forty minute drive to the neighbourhood Moriko’s grandparents live in. Nestled between several older homes, the townhouse sits in a picturesque neighborhood, though slightly outdated. Oikawa parks across the street, underneath an overgrown willow, and sets a parking permit onto the dash. 

“And now,” he says, turning off the engine. “We wait.”

Through the deep tinted windows of the car, Hinata spots the Shinohara residence. There’s a light on still, glowing warm through the grey day, though no figures cast shadows. With a sigh, Hinata resigns himself to the theory that his time here will consist mostly of sights like these. 

The relative bore is broken when Oikawa fishes a small container out of the glove box and flips open a compact mirror. Hinata watches with a morbid kind of curiosity as Oikawa plucks contacts from his eyes. Once discarded into the container, he plucks a pair of tortoiseshell rimmed glasses with golden underwires from the glove box, affixing them onto his nose with practiced ease. The whole process is done in under thirty seconds, without fanfare or care for Hinata’s bug eyed fascination. 

“You wear glasses?” Hinata asks, unable to keep his surprise out of his tone. 

Oikawa turns to face him, smiling with a slight curve in his brow. “What, is that weird? I’m not gonna keep contacts on and dry out my eyes.”

Hinata’s ears burn as he huffs. “It’s just— I don’t know. You don’t seem like the glasses… type.”

Snickering, Oikawa shakes his head. “I wasn’t aware people needed to be a certain _type_ to be able to see, Shou-chan,” he says, tongue caught between teeth. “Am I that hideous?”

There’s no hiding as Oikawa leans over the console, crowding Hinata’s personal space in an already small environment. Hinata tries to sit as tall as he can despite the flush on his cheeks, his mind still running the words _Shou-chan_ as he stares at Oikawa's decisively _not_ hideous, very pretty face. 

“Are—aren’t we supposed to be watching the house?” Hinata says in an attempt to change the subject. He glances back over at the lamplit room, watching as an elderly woman steps towards the window to water some plants. 

“Hm? Who says I’m not watching?” Oikawa murmurs, voice _much_ closer. 

Hinata jolts, turning his head to find Oikawa’s mouth resting in the space dangerously close to his ear. He slaps away a wandering hand on instinct, shooting Oikawa a look of frustration. 

“Stop that! And get some binoculars if you’re so blind,” he hisses, still flustered. For someone so serious and _sure_ about the killer picking this house as the next target for the victim’s body dump, Oikawa is much too teasing. 

Oikawa eyes widen in mock offense before he chuckles, leaning back into his seat. In any other context, Hinata wouldn’t stop to think of him as a control freak. Yet here he is, sitting in a car with a man who demanded _they_ be the ones to stakeout this location, that _Hinata_ be the only one he works with, and that _he_ holds the case in the palm of his hand. 

Hinata steadies himself with a deep breath. These will be some of the longest hours in his life. 

—

By the time the sun has set and the sky has turned dark, Hinata’s stomach has begun to growl. Digging into the bag at his feet, Hinata takes out his cooler, throwing the rest into the backseat. Oikawa drops his binoculars to watch as Hinata sorts through, pulling out two bentos, a can of iced coffee, and a bottle of water. They all drip with condensation as he sets them on his lap, still cool from the ice packs at the bottom. Wordlessly, Hinata passes Oikawa the iced coffee, balanced precariously on one carefully sealed bento with chopsticks and all. 

“Here,” Hinata says, thrusting it against Oikawa’s chest. When all he receives is an arched brow, he huffs. “Take it.”

Oikawa stares at the bento as if expecting it to be poisoned. With an amount of care that feels almost mocking, Oikawa begins to open up the meal and inspect it’s contents. 

“You made this for me?” he asks, voice lilting as he pokes the hard boiled egg with his chopsticks. Hinata had sliced it as neatly as he could, placing it over top of the rice in a way he hoped looked cute. The vegetables are cut in a much less meaningful fashion. Once steamed, they lost any neat appearance they once had. 

“It’s not like you can cook for yourself,” Hinata grumbles, crossing his arms. “If you won’t eat it then—”

Oikawa cuts him off with a hum of delight. Hinata watches him smile around his chopsticks, pulling them out clean. “I’d _never_ waste your cooking. Especially when you made it special for me.”

Turning away, Hinata opens his own meal. “Well, what was your other choice? Starve?”

Oikawa gasps dramatically. “Hina-chan is so _cold,”_ he whines, pouting in an offensive display of posturing. “And here I thought he was starting to fall for my charm!”

Hinata very nearly chokes on his own spit at the thought of falling for _Oikawa’s_ charm. _What charm?_ If anything, Oikawa is the most insufferable, soulless, egotistical bastard he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

An insufferable, soulless, egotistical bastard that Hinata has begun dreaming about sleeping with.

Hinata twists his body as far away from Oikawa as the car seat allows. He’s long since resigned himself to the twisted whims conjured by his own subconscious— these secret fantasies of his are no different. It just means that he has all of the practice and no excuse not to ignore the impulse to lick a strip up his neck or grind himself against his palm. He isn’t even _hard,_ let alone turned on by Oikawa’s act. 

They finish their respective meals in no time at all, no doubt because neither have eaten since breakfast that morning. Hinata does not think about how every meal Oikawa has eaten today was of his own making, and does not think about how they have shared each of those meals together. 

Once finished, Hinata sips on his water and watches the apartment lights flicker on and off. The Shinohara’s have had a simple day in their modest home on their quiet street. The only people who passed are commuters on their way back from work, salarymen on their way out to the bars, and families meandering by with kids on bikes or dogs on leashes. No one carries a bag larger than a briefcase, and those in cars always slow down for kids. It’s hard, then, to be suspicious of utterly _not_ suspicious people living their ordinary lives, though he supposes that's exactly what they have to do. Oikawa jots down notes on a spare pad of paper, taking down what seems to be license plates and vague descriptions. As the night goes on, Hinata finds his gaze drifting further and further away from the Shinohara’s home, landing on something much closer by. If Oikawa notices his staring at him, which Hinata is sure he does, he makes no move to acknowledge it. 

There’s something strange about seeing Oikawa without his usual dark suit. The well worn knit of his sweater looks much more like something an old grandpa would wear. It’s a little outdated, and shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. Oikawa in general shouldn’t be endearing. His glasses slip down the slope of his nose as he writes, lashes brushing against the frames each time he pushes them back up. There’s no other word Hinata can use to describe Oikawa but… _handsome._ His lips purse into a perfect pucker. His hair falls to frame his face. His skin, in the low lamplight of the darkened street, glows with a kind of radiance Hinata previously associated with professors and students in libraries late at night. Now, Hinata is sure that this aesthetic will be reserved for Oikawa and Oikawa alone.

Some time amidst his staring, Oikawa turns his head, catching Hinata’s eye. The quirk of his lips sends a guilty flush down Hinata’s neck, despite not having done anything wrong. It’s as if Oikawa can see through him, can rifle through his memories and find each dream and stray thought with just a stare. Hinata wants to despise it, wants to loathe the way Oikawa’s very existence forces him out of the status quo he’s so carefully maintained. But Hinata is tired, and Oikawa stays quiet, and those worries will still exist for him to ponder on the next day. He breaks Oikawa’s gaze and looks out the window, saving those thoughts for another time.

Eventually, Hinata’s eyes begin to droop. His blinks for as long as he can, until his stay closed more often than they stay open. Through the bleary haze of sleep ridden eyes, Hinata stares at the clock on the dash. _00:04,_ it reads. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, only to jerk awake when his head drops suddenly. Everything spins for a moment as he closes his eyes once more, head leaning back onto the seat. 

“Shouyou…” Oikawa says, voice a sing song lull that barely manages to rouse Hinata. There’s a gravelly tone to his voice that soothes the part of Hinata that wants to be caught off guard at the closeness of his voice, at the proximity of it to his ear. Instead of jerking away, Hinata finds himself relaxing, humming as Oikawa chuckles low. “I can take first watch if you’re tired.”

“Mhm,” Hinata says in response. Succinct. Concise. Smart— just like Oikawa. His head lulls to the side, colliding with something soft and stable. Without stopping to think, he settles into the warmth and lets himself drift uninhibited into sleep. All the while, Oikawa watches him, keeping his shoulder steady. Without waking Hinata, Oikawa drapes his coat over top of Hinata’s chest. He’ll be the only one to know that Hinata chose him to sleep on. Subconscious or otherwise, the glee remains present and carries Oikawa through the rest of the night. 

This is his secret to keep.

—

When Hinata is jolted awake, it’s with the same familiar dream fading at the edges of his vision. By now, he’s used to it— the shapes and colours it holds are nothing more than memories he’s relieved countless times. It’s the same dream he always has, and the same one he’ll have again. With a well-timed stretch, he cracks his neck and sits up to stretch as best he can. In the process, a heavy swath of fabric falls from his shoulder and into his lap. It doesn’t take long for Hinata to identify it as Oikawa’s jacket. 

“Good morning sleeping beauty.”

Hinata jumps, head whipping around to face Oikawa. Despite the dark purple bags under his eyes, he greets Hinata with a smile. “Have you—” Hinata coughs, clearing his throat. “Have you slept?”

Oikawa shakes his head. “You got about… six and a half hours. I’ve been up since you clocked out.” He yawns, rolling one shoulder. “Not like I could sleep anyways, what with you talking.”

“When was I talking?” Hinata asks, furrowing his brow. “I don't remember waking up.” His face drops, the realization cold in his stomach as it hits him. “Do… Did I sleep talk?”

Oikawa nods. “Often. Who’s Natsu? You kept mentioning them,” he says, keeping Hinata’s eye contact with what appears to be genuine curiosity.

The walls holding up Hinata’s mind begin to creak, begin to shudder. “Natsu,” he says, her name foreign on his tongue. How long has it been since he’s said it out loud? How long has it been since he last visited her? How much of her is left now that she lives in Hinata’s mind, crawling out of the shadows when he least expects? He tries to focus his eyes on Oikawa’s expression, a mix of confusion and concern, only for the world to start to blur. The car is not a car— it's a room, and the walls are closing in. He reaches for the door to find it locked. There’s nowhere left to go.

Suddenly, the car is not a car. The car is his bedroom and Oikawa is watching him curl in on himself, rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Sickness swells in his stomach but doesn’t quite purge, held back by the knowledge that he is being watched. Hinata tries the door again. When it doesn't budge, he panics, crying out as he thrashes his limbs against the window. The walls. The superimposition of memory over reality becomes harder and harder to distinguish, until the picture is one and the same. A hand touches his shoulder. Hinata nearly screams, clawing at the flesh as best he can while confined in this infinite space.

“Shouyou!” he shouts. He is not here, Hinata reminds himself. But his memory comes to mind, even after all of these years. “Shouyou, it’s me. Look at me Shouyou.”

Hinata forces his eyes and mouth shut as hands clasp either side of his head. They’re soft— too soft. He tries to wrench himself away and fails. He’s always been the weaker one. 

_Shouyou?_ Natsu calls out. _Shooooouyou?_

“Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Nails dig into his cheeks. It isn’t painful, just pressure. The voice is gentle now, almost a whisper. It’s quietness doesn’t match the scenery behind Hinata’s eyes. Doubt curdles in Hinata’s stomach at the mismatch of sensations around him— he smells leather. There was never any leather there. Each momentous realization helps pry his eyes open from the waking nightmare, clearing the fog of terror until he can see Oikawa sitting in front of him, glasses askew, face mere inches from his own. 

“Breathe with me,” he tells him, squeezing Hinata’s cheeks between his palms. It takes a few moments for Hinata’s breath to stop hiccuping enough to follow the steady flow of Oikawa’s breath. With each shaken inhale, Hinata’s mind clears, the memory fading from view. Eventually, it disappears entirely, leaving him and Oikawa all by themselves. The city street is quiet. Hardly ten minutes have passed. 

“I— I’m— I’m sorry,” Hinata stammers. He can’t help that his body still trembles, that his tongue can’t find the right words. “Natsu— Natsu—”

Oikawa squeezes his cheeks again, shushing him. “You don’t have to tell me right now. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you by asking.”

Too tired to mask his confusion, Hinata furrows his brows, lips mouthing silently around words he can’t place. Oikawa strokes his hand down Hinata’s cheek, fingertips twining around a stray piece of hair. Gingerly, as if afraid moving too fast might spook Hinata into a second fit, Oikawa tucks the hair behind Hinata’s ear. 

“I can call Iwaizumi to come switch with us early,” Oikawa says. “But it’s up to you. I’ll stay up until you feel better either way.”

“You— you aren’t tired?” Hinata asks him. He sniffles, snot running more than his tears. 

Oikawa shrugs. “I can stay up for you. I don’t mind.”

Hinata nods. He leans back into his seat, relaxing ever so slightly. Having Oikawa this close should be terrifying, but Hinata’s common sense has long since dissolved. He can’t help the way his defenses fall in the place of unexpected empathy. How can Oikawa contain a kaleidoscope of multitudes that include both a killer and someone kind enough to talk Hinata down? How can he shift between these versions of himself? How is Hinata expected to reconcile the killer he knows with the kind man holding him tight?

Oikawa reaches over, pulling back up his jacket to cover Hinata’s shoulders. “Do you want some tea? I have some in a thermos. It’s still kind of warm.”

“Oh. Sure,” Hinata says. His voice is much more steady now, the weight of Oikawa’s coat comforting. The tea, while lukewarm, is sweet enough that Hinata doesn't scowl at the first taste of it to his tongue. He breathes in the aroma as his heartbeat begins to slow. After a few sips, Hinata’s stomach settles, warmth replacing the unease. He manages to focus on the Shinohara residence for a few minutes uninterrupted, watching as a single car passes by— the first of the morning commuters. Beside him, Oikawa takes the thermos, sipping the tea before settling back in his chair. 

“If you’re okay, I’ll get some rest. Wake me if anything goes wrong, okay?” Oikawa says. He folds up his glasses, setting them onto the dash. 

“Sleep— um, sleep well,” Hinata tells him, unsure what else to say. 

Oikawa smiles. “Well, with you here, I’m sure I will.” 

With that he closes his eyes, leaning back onto his seat. Hinata stares at him, at the strange display of vulnerability before him. Hinata doesn’t want to move for fear of waking him, even though he’s sure Oikawa isn’t yet asleep. Even as he watches the bustle of the new day begin, his eyes continue to drift back to Oikawa. The respite he expected to get from being alone for a few hours doesn’t quite hit like Hinata expected. Against all odds, he finds himself wishing Oikawa was awake, that they could talk aimlessly to distract Hinata from his lingering thoughts. 

Hinata drinks the rest of the tea, and tries not to feel shame at being caught in a moment of crisis. Even after so many years, Natsu’s name still carries the weight of every failure Hinata had ever made. In moments like these, he wishes there were someone to share his pain with. Maybe sixteen hours in a shared space has tricked Hinata into hoping Oikawa could be that person. Or maybe what tricked him was the concern in Oikawa’s eyes, the genuine care in his touch. Touch that Hinata has craved, that leaves his skin tingling and heart aching for more. But now is no time for these questions. Hinata stores his worries away, just as he’s learned to do, and watches the people go by. There are bigger things than his own problems, and right now, it’s all he can do. 

—

Oikawa wakes around noon just in time to watch the Shinohara’s tend to their small balcony garden. There’s a moment where he blindly reaches for his glasses, squinting against the light in a way that Hinata can only describe as ridiculous. He stifles a laugh at the absurdity of it all, giving Oikawa a moment to regain his bearings before speaking.

“They woke up around seven-thirty. This is the first thing to really happen today,” Hinata tells him. He turns, watching Oikawa crack his knuckles. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Best I could.” Gravelled, his voice scratches as he rubs his eyes. “Are you feeling better?”

Hinata’s stomach drops. After the third hour of silence and staring, his mind had gone peacefully blank, staying that way up until now. There’s no escaping Oikawa’s question, however, forcing Hinata to confront the shoddy foundation of his competent mind.

“Exhausted. Mentally, I guess. Emotionally? I don’t know.” Hinata lets himself close his eyes, trusting Oikawa to watch the Shinohara’s for a moment. “I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see me like that.”

“If it helps, I don’t think any less of you for it,” Oikawa says. His eyes crinkle slightly. Hinata isn’t sure if it’s out of true sympathy or simply pity. As easy as it would be if it were the latter, Hinata finds himself hoping that Oikawa actually cares. Just thinking about it worsens the growing headache between his eyes.

“Can we talk about something else?” Hinata says, opening his eyes. “Did you see anyone suspicious overnight?”

Oikawa raises his brows, but doesn’t comment on Hinata’s request. “The street was dead quiet. We might be in this for the long haul.”

Tension follows his words when Hinata doesn’t respond, thickening the air to the point where Hinata isn’t sure he could speak if he wanted to. Surrounding them both are ifs and chances, the possibilities Hinata refuses to acknowledge with the excuse of what else is at stake. Time doesn’t so much pass as it does shift, like notches on a dial, overlaying each hour with a different kind of air too cool for Hinata’s liking. They waste away the hours like that, watching the same salary men come and go, picking out the now familiar faces from the crowd of people coming home— a nurse in scrubs, a gaggle of middle schoolers in their uniforms, old couples walking up and down the street.

At the twenty-four hour mark, Oikawa makes a phone call to arrange for Iwaizumi to come and take their place at the stakeout. Though guilt at not being able to last crawls up his spine, Hinata feels immense relief at being given an excuse to go home. They wait until a black Honda parallel parks across the street to pull away, Oikawa driving wordlessly back to Hinata’s apartment. Neither speak a word. It’s the quietest Hinata has ever seen him. 

“Do you want me to walk you to your apartment?” Oikawa asks him as he pulls up to the door. Hinata stares at him blankly, halfway through the motion of gathering his things. A traitorous, large part of him wants to say yes. It scratches at his throat and prevents him from saying anything. Hinata just shakes his head. He lets Oikawa’s jacket fall back onto the chair and leaves the car, heading to the only place he knows how to call home. At only five o’clock, he crawls beneath his covers and succumbs to a dreamless sleep, all of the world fading away.

—

The sun hasn’t quite risen by the time Hinata climbs out of bed. No messages on his phone greet him at the early hour of five-fifteen, no texts telling him of developments in the case. After a much needed shower, Hinata dons fresh clothes and eats a simple meal of egg on rice. As he shovels the first warm meal in many hours into his mouth, his eyes fall onto the mess of papers sitting on the coffee table. Hundreds of case files remain strewn about his apartment, no longer of use to either him or the case. With a sigh, Hinata pushes his dishes to the side. Though he doubts anyone but the janitors will be in so early, the unused files belong somewhere safer than Hinata’s living room. He cleans them up as best he can and tucks them into a bag, making way for the train station on sleepy legs.

The city hasn’t yet hit the point of buzzing, yet signs of activity dance around the corners of Hinata’s eyes. The first coffee shops begin to open, the city stretching its arms, unaware of the danger that lurks in every shadow. Hinata doesn’t have to travel far to reach the police station, but the early morning walk is hard to enjoy when he knows so intimately the horrors lurking on the underside of every cheery day. 

With the deep breath, he hikes his bag higher up onto his shoulder and rounds the corner to the police station. One street light flickers over head, leaving the rest of the parking lot painted in shadows. He’s halfway to the door when his eye catches something strange sitting just outside of the halo of light cast from the inside of the building. 

Hinata recognizes the smell before anything else. The sickly sweet smell of rot clings to his nostrils, awakening a deep set terror from within. The bag falls to the ground, Hinata not long after, his eyes now level with the abomination in front of him. The mound of mauled flesh, all muscles and fat, drips with bodily fluids and blood. Hinata’s vision blurs as it searches for something else to focus on— ground up bones piercing through the flesh, the wriggle of maggots as they burrow in and out of intestines, four eyes pushed into the flesh in a crude mockery of a smile. Thumbs for eyes. Strips of skin for hair. A disembodied hand forcing its way out of the mess as if reaching for Hinata’s throat. 

All of the contents of Hinata’s stomach upend themselves, forehead coming inches to the pile of flesh. With a choked cry, he forces himself away, screaming at the top of his lungs before another wave of nausea hits him. Over top of the sounds of his own cries, he can hear Natsu, her sweet, childish voice, crying— _why did you leave me?_ Hinata rakes his hands down the asphalt and truly wishes, for the first time without any doubt, that Oikawa were here to save him from the situation he’s stumbled upon. At the very least, he’d have hands to pull Hinata away. A voice to drown out the sound of Natsu’s screams. Warmth in the place of bone deep terror. Gagging on nothing, he lifts his eyes one last time, trying to make sense of what sits in front of him. Instead, his eyes lift higher, to the message written in blood upon the white walls of the bricks.

_Too late!_

**Author's Note:**

> wanna talk to us or ask us questions about any of our projects or find out how to read chapters early? you can find us at [@mookzymooks](https://twitter.com/mookzymooks) and [@lesbianiwaizumi](https://twitter.com/lesbianiwaizumi) on twitter.


End file.
